


Earthquake Drills

by efk_girldetective



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All sorts of OCs!, Angst, Closet Sex, Clueless!Lily, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hogwarts Geography is Confusing, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marauders, Minor Violence, Minor derogatory sexual language, Sexual Tension, WOLFSTAR!, War, jealous!James
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 132,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efk_girldetective/pseuds/efk_girldetective
Summary: ~Sequel to Summer Girl~You have to practice before an emergency: When the ground starts shaking, you have to know what to hide under, who to hold onto.1977. Summer is over. Lily Evans and James Potter are in their seventh and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The world around the castle shifts, unmoored. Love and friendship become urgent, imperative concerns—become, perhaps, the difference between life and death.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 115
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

Earthquake Drills

I need you to understand

These are the earthquake drills that we ran

Under the freeway overpasses

The tears behind your dark sunglasses

The fears inside your heart as deep as gashes

You walk beside me, not behind me

Feel my unconditional love

–HAIM, “Summer Girl”

1

_Lily_

This should bring me comfort.

Marlene staring wide-eyed into a compact, interrogating loose, golden coils and maroon-painted lips; Dorcas already neck-deep in a heated argument with Mary over the ethics of house elf labor; the burgeoning crowd of nervous parents fussing over their students, painted over in worry, adjusting robes and taking last-minute pictures, exchanging tearful goodbyes; friends reuniting after long summer separations, screaming for one another across the platform; upperclassmen joining up with housemates, hatching serious plans for the year ahead, flirting with new crushes from afar; first years rushing toward the train with excited, anxious, hopeful eyes, ready for their lives to begin, terrified for their lives to begin—and hanging over it all, the persistent steam of the Hogwarts Express, like a harbinger of new beginnings, of all things good and growing; a brand new year waits for us all at the end of the tracks.

This _should_ bring me comfort.

It’s not as though I’m not _trying_ to be comforted—trying to soak in all the buzzing energy around me, the laughter and the smiles and the anticipation. I try desperately to conjure any similar feeling, even just a semblance of one I’ve felt before myself, six separate times.

But I am not well-versed in wandless magic, in spells of self-empathy. I feel like a projection of myself, a weak one—as if the real, physical me is somewhere far away, unused.

What I’m left with is a faded resemblance of self: pulsing with hurt.

“Oi, Lils! Are we alive?” Marlene is snapping her fingers in front of my face. “What’s going on in there?”

“I—”

“Should we be getting on?” Mary asks, glancing her wristwatch. Her sleek black hair is in a long braid down her back. “Are we waiting on Ingrid, Marls?”

Marlene barks a laugh. “Oh, Ingrid’s already in there. Didn’t love the ‘meet on the platform’ plan a single jot. Didn’t want the car to get taken by Slytherins—or worse, Hufflepuffs.”

“Well, you could’ve said so! Been waiting out here for Merlin knows how long—” Mary pleads, urging us along, toward the train. “Also, please, let’s be nice this year about Hufflepuffs, yeah?”

Marlene just rolls her eyes in violent haste, ignores the question.

When we reach our regular car—194, precisely— Ingrid and her brand-new powder-blue hair are already inside, as Marlene promised. I pause in the hall, watch my friends tumble in, hugging, laughing, exclaiming. I watch Marlene kiss Ingrid. I feel like I’m seeing it all from underwater. 

“Lils?” It’s Dorcas, next to me, not yet gone in.

“I—” I swallow. “Um, I’ve got to go up to the Prefect car, to get things going.”

“You okay?”

I look at her for a long second, cutting my eyes away. “I’ll be okay. Once we’re at the castle, and settled, I’ll feel better.”

Dorcas looks unconvinced, but lets it go. “Well—have fun?”

“Hardly think “fun” is in my current realm of possible things to have,” I mumble, shooting her a weak smile. “But thanks, Dor—see you soon.”

I rush off down the length of the train, toward the Prefect car, realizing I’m probably very late, and the Head Boy is probably thinking I resigned, or passed away. I’ve no time or capacity to have a guess at who wears the pin identical to mine on their robes. I’ve always thought perhaps Remus would be a contender, but even the thought of him brings a sharp pain to my chest.

I shake my head, as if the movement will rid me of unhelpful grief (it does not).

When I finally arrive and slide open the door, the car’s packed wall-to-wall with Prefects from all four houses chattering so loudly that the sound of me entering is likely not heard at all. I scan the crowd quickly, spotting some familiar faces, before finding the front of the car, and finding the Head Boy.

In retrospect: Perhaps I could have—should have—guessed. If I’d thought about it a bit longer, a bit harder—I might have figured it out.

In retrospect: Figuring it out would have been a healthy thing to do, given the way I could have prepared myself for the face that greets me, for the figure leaning with his arms crossed against the side of the car.

_Because really—who else could it have been?_

I thank my body that it becomes defensive (internally) rather than offensive (externally). I thank my heart that it beats frantically inside, rather than out loud. But—I can’t thank him. Because when he looks up and sees me from across the car, there is nothing in his eyes: No anger, no surprise, no hope, no sadness, no anticipation, no irritation. Nothing.

Just unmoving irises behind round, horn-rimmed glasses.

And I feel as though I’ve been cracked open again, set inside-out—not a girl, anymore. Just a collection of useless pieces.

I swallow. Check myself. Bristle. _This is not the time. This is not the place_. He is here, and I am here, and there is a carful of Prefects expecting leadership.

I’m next to him in not two steps, confronting empty eyes. I pointedly ignore the crisp lines of his uniform, his shorter autumn hair— _did Euphemia cut it?_ I do not think of any of that. I say, like a line from a play: “Sorry I’m so late.”

Don’t say: _I am currently floating in a sea of despair where time does not exist._

He responds quickly. “S’alright. I arranged first-night patrols, and our next meeting, tomorrow night.” He shoves a pile of papers in my direction. “Maybe you want to check it.”

I don’t want to check it. I want to leave, I want to cry, I want to scream—I want anything that won’t involve his blank eyes, this strange, brusque tone.

I clear my throat. “I’m sure it’s fine. Thanks—for doing that.”

“Wasn’t difficult. Shall we get things going?”

Because I am self-destructive, I risk a glance to his face, hoping to find something there—but he’s not looking at me. He’s pushing up off the side of the car, brushing something off his sleeve.

There are introductions—there is the passing out of initial patrol schedules and manuals for first-timers—there is the reminder of the first real meeting, the location of the Prefect office on the sixth floor—there is a moment for questions— there is the annual begging (“c’mon, what about perks, now?”) followed by the annual round of snickers as I point out there’s a section in the very back of the manual about the very few privileges afforded to Prefects, and how it’s of utmost importance that no Prefect abuse any privilege, for risk of losing them altogether.

It’s all over rather quickly, and the crowd of fifth, sixth, and seventh years disperse from the car in all of an instant, headed back to their respective friend groups to gossip, to brag, to rejoice.

When it’s just him and I, the real panic sets in.

I hadn’t considered the reality: Heads are afforded a bit more privilege than Prefects, given their slightly higher position and responsibility, the main of which involves private quarters, separate from regular house dormitories. A perk most Heads are likely elastic about—and a fact that paralyzes me the second I think of it.

There is a moment where I could say something like _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ —but I just say, “If you want me to, I can talk to Dumbledore, I can figure out—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupts, voice low.

A cutting pain that hits straight across my temple: How different this person is from the boy I spent all summer with. Being at least partially responsible for the change myself? Unfathomable. Grating.

I swallow. “Alright. I’ll—er, see you later, then.” And then I’m gone from the car, speeding down the train corridor.

I can ignore and avoid as much as I want. But his eyes won’t soon leave me: Cold, unfeeling—like he saw right through me.

***

_James_

I’m not keen on the three furrowed brows that turn toward me when I rejoin our traditional car. “What?”

Three furrowed brows turn away, bristling, when they hear this tone. I slump down next to Remus, tossing my bookbag on the floor, shrugging off heavy robes. On the seat opposite, Peter has me cornered with a particularly anxious set of blue eyes. “Alright, James?”

“Define, ‘alright.’”

Remus shoots Peter a look of reproach, obviously having had in mind a different approach to my delicate mood. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Sirius is staring me down, too. He’s folded into the corner of the car, where the window meets the dividing wall, uniform somehow already in utter disarray. “She’s Head, too, then?”

“Yeah.”

Remus gives me a wallowing look. “Sorry, James.”

I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. Maybe I’ll manage to push them all the way back into my skull, die a slow and painful death—equal only to the year ahead. “Let’s just—” I shake out my hands, eager to be distracted from the heaviness. “Let’s just talk about something else.”

“Oh, well, the trolley’s not been by yet,” Peter offers, brightly, hopefully. “That’s something to look forward to, at least, right?”  
  
I shoot him a rueful half-smile. “Only if you’re buying, Wormy.”

***

There may have been a time when just being within in the sturdy walls of Hogwarts was enough to soothe me, make my problems seem small—how could anything be so bad, really, when I got to live at school and learn magic, bunk with my best mates, play Quidditch, sneak through secret passages to Hogsmeade?

The principal, I suppose, fails only once every seven years.

I hardly notice the first few weeks of seventh year pass, slogging through the motions of class and homework and rounds and Quidditch tryouts and practices with unmoving, petrified insides. This is how I have to behave, to save myself: as if I’m trapped at the bottom of a well. Stuck in a wet puddle—perpetually wet socks. No rope, no bucket. Zero light from above.

And because I’m a coward—and embalmed in grief, and can’t imagine anything worse than seeing her, making the hurt worse—I evade Lily at all costs, as if my life depends on it (it does).

I arrange patrol schedules carefully, so we’re never paired, and manage somehow to avoid sitting near her in any of the five classes we share—Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology. I bunk in the Gryffindor Tower, in my usual bed, with the Marauders—and while I’m not sure that’s technically allowed, I find it crucial to self-preservation. To share a space with her, and the memories, and the pain—would be unbearable.

I am not always lucky in my efforts.

After all—despite any resolute ignorance, I am not blind. She is still there—in the Great Hall during meals and free hours, in the library, studying, in the hallways, walking with friends between classes—sometimes, from across a classroom, I indulge myself, dangerously; watch her tuck a strand of crimson behind her ear, adjust the sleeve of her button-down, worry her bottom lip between teeth.

And the observation, inevitably, spurs remembrance: A breathy sigh of appreciation; a small, secret smile; a vision of her swimming toward me, a floating head in green water.

Such moments only flare the intolerable ache behind my ribs—and I berate myself each time, forcing my eyes away, biting down on my tongue, digging my fingers into the seat, as if any of this will—as if any of this _could_ —take away the effect she still has on me, despite her not loving me, despite her leaving me.

I’m in the well, regardless. To glance, to hope, to remember—tiny sentences of death.

***

The Marauders, in general, tiptoe around The Issue of Lily.

Mainly because, in general, I am increasingly volatile: ornery at the drop of a hat, eager enough to spar over anything worth sparring over—and especially eager to spar over things _not_ worth sparring over. Sirius is usually the receiving end, unfortunately, given his pre-existent disposition toward dispute—a defense-mechanism, courtesy of growing up in the Black lineage—and also because he is not always as inclined to take the same care in dealing with me as Peter and Remus are.

“Listen—you hear about Landes and Evans?”

I nearly break my neck reeling at him. “ _What_?”

He doesn’t appear pleased about it, but continues. “Yeah, er, Ian, y’know, Pennington, said he’d heard they were, um—y’know.”

“ _Martin_ Landes? Ravenclaw?”

Sirius scratches nervously the back of his neck. “That’s the one.”

“The fuck grounds does Ian Pennington have, saying this to you? Or anyone?” As usual, I’m a short fuse. _Already in a rotten mood, why not pile this on?_

“I dunno, but he’s roommates with Landes, so, I dunno—you’d think he’d know!”

“Well, _fuck_!”

“Look I’m sorry, Potter, I knew this would put you off, just figured you’d want to hear it from me, and not someone else, yeah?”

“Fucking hell,” I’m shaking my head, hands gesturing in incredulity. “You do know I’m on my way to a Prefects meeting, yeah? At which Martin Landes _and_ Lily will be fucking in attendance?”

“Mate, Christ, I’m sorry, I really am, I’m just—”

“Just forget it. I’ll see you later.”

I swerve away from Sirius, stalking down a third-floor corridor, blood boiling.

***

_Lily_

“Oh, and I think it goes without saying that Halloween is going to be a particularly important night of patrolling, so we’ll have to go over those schedules closely, next week. Any questions before we’re off?” In the back of the room, a hand shoots up. “Yeah, Mitzi?”

“How do I get fifth years to listen to me?”

A wave of muffled laughter from the assemblage. James readjusts his stance, leaning back, arms crossed, against the Head’s desk. “How do you mean?”

“I mean they won’t listen to me, they keep breaking curfew, and I’m beginning to think the only way to keep track of the misconducts is camping outside the portrait hole, which I don’t want to do, I’ve got schoolwork of my own, y’know.”

“Have you tried threatening detention?” I ask from behind the Head’s desk, nose-deep in the meeting attendance log. “Fifth years don’t react well to detention.”

“Well, yes, but—” Mitzi clears her throat. “I think it’s because I’m so short.”

Another smattering of laughter. Then Katy Walters, to Mitzi’s left, speaks up on her fellow Hufflepuff’s behalf. “It’s true, she’s not just saying that, people are rather cruel to her about it.”

“Well—” James clears his throat. “If they keep giving you trouble, one of us will help you sort it out with detentions. Fifth years ought to know better.” He slants her a half-smile. “I’ll use my outside voice, yeah?”

Mitzi nods quickly, blushing, seemingly eased by this.

“Great,” James claps his hands together. “Any other questions?” He scans the room. “No? Alright, don’t forget to pick up new schedules from the desk, we’ll see you lot next week.”

The Prefects shuffle out of their seats and filter past the Head’s desk, grabbing sheets of parchment from the pile of schedules. I’m so entrenched in beginning to corroborate last week’s reports that I barely notice someone’s stopped in front of the desk till they’ve cleared their throat.

I start, look up. Martin Landes, sixth year Ravenclaw Prefect. Corn-haired, freckle-nosed. Lanky fellow. “Martin,” I appraise. “Can I help?”

He’s beaming at me. “Right on, Evans, wondering if I might have a word?”

“Oh, sure, what’s—”

“In private?” He glances meaningfully at James, who’s wrapped up in his own reports now, behind the desk.

“Er,” I am not particularly interested in talking to Martin Landes, alone, but am also too polite to refuse. “Okay.”

Once we’re out in the hall, just outside the door, he turns to me. “Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

Nearly swallow my tongue. “I’m—I’m sorry?”

“A trip,” Martin says, slowly. “To Hogsmeade? This weekend? With me?”

“Oh, um—” I’m floundering. The possibility of Martin Landes asking me on a date has never once entered my mind—and neither has the possibility of _wanting_ Martin Landes to ask me on a date. He’s a fine-looking guy, sure, and I suppose I should be flattered—but I’m not. Not in the least. “I don’t think so, Martin, I’m sorry.”

“Alright,” he shrugs, like it’s no skin off his back. “If you change your mind, you know which tower I’m in.”

With a flash of a smile, he’s gone, then, and I’m left in a bit of a sweat, out of breath. _What’s this—sixth year Prefects coming on to me? Surely there’s a rule against that._

I draw myself up, shake it off. I re-enter the Head’s office and find James looking as if he’s on his way out, shuffling logs and reports into piles, shoving some into his bag. I return to my seat behind the desk, hesitantly. He doesn’t spare me a look.

I should be used to it, by now, weeks into it—but I’m not. It still hurts.

And I’ve the sudden, irresponsible urge to keep him here. Force him to talk to me—to look at me. He makes to leave, and I call out, “Wait, James—”

He pauses, almost through the door, shifts slightly, turns to look back. “Yeah?”

Would it kill him to give me just a _hint_ of how he’s feeling? If he’s angry with me, I want him to be angry with me. If he’s hurt—I want to see the hurt. If he’s glad to be rid of me, glad I made it easy, so be it. I just want to see. I want to know.

But now, turned only halfway toward me, like it’s a chore just to acknowledge me—he gives me nothing. His face a clean, empty slate.

“Can we...talk?”

A long, brutal pause. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Then, quiet—“I’m sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

***

_James_

“James Potter?”

I start from my dramatic self-isolation, perched on the stump of a tree in the east courtyard, chomping on a pear. It’s Eliza who said my name—passing through, perhaps, on her way to dinner or the library.

She’s looking well. Her auburn hair’s a bit shorter than I remember it, falling just above her chin. Her face is still the same, open and bright, teasing eyebrows, dimples that make it hard to hide a smile.

“You alright out here?” She wonders, concern revealing itself in the lines of her forehead. I suppose I look rather depressed and friendless in the lackluster October courtyard, when perhaps I ought to be in the great hall, or Gryffindor common room, among people, participating in some miscellaneous mischief or glee.

“Just looking for a spot of quiet.” I try to offer a reassuring smile—one that feels immediately like an unconvincing gesture.

Eliza eyes the pear in my hand. “How’s the year, then?”

“Er, fantastic. Yours?”

She shifts the pile of textbooks she holds from one arm to the other. “Oh, um, great. Turns out dropping Arithmancy was the best decision I should’ve made two years ago.”

“No way, dropped? You were so _determined_ to follow through on the entire N.E.W.T!”

“I know, I know, it was the Ravenclaw principle!” She laughs. “But I just couldn’t do it, magical maths are just too unreasonably bleak.”

I give her a genuine smile now. When we were dating, I always felt like this—secure in her presence, fuzzy in joy. She has that effect. I think it’s the dimples. “And how’s Lyam these days?”

She blushes a bit. “Oh, all good.”

She’d started seeing Lyam Schaefer not three months after I broke things off with her—and I’d been relieved, given the immense guilt I’d experienced upon our separation. “Well, I’ve nothing but disdain for his performance last Saturday,” I chide, shuddering to remember his unprecedented plays on the Quidditch field, some of which ultimately brought the Ravenclaw win over my own long-suffering team. “But I’m glad you’re happy. I really am.”

“Thanks, James, it means a lot.” She tucks a strand of hair back behind an ear shyly. “I—I wish I could see you the same.”

I swallow, shake my head, as if to say _oh, that's nothing,_ when really I just don’t trust myself to respond without a throat-catching breath. _If you only knew how close I was_.

Eliza looks at me for a long second. She’s got a half-smile, dimples and all. “She’s lucky.”

I look up, surprised.

“And she’ll come around,” she says, nodding, as if to affirm her belief. “I know it.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

Eliza winks, says, “See you around, yeah?” and then is gone from the courtyard, as if a ghost—and I’m left only with a hollow chest; a dreary October sky; my thankless pear.

***

_Lily_

“I heard you’re shagging Landes.”

I glance up from my Alchemy textbook to give Mary a blistering look. “Pardon me, MacDonald?”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me, by now, Lily, it’s that I am a devoted pupil of the Hogwarts gossip network.” She’s perched on her bed, sweeping Marlene’s hair into an intricate, four-pronged braid. “So I can only assume you didn’t tell us because you were embarrassed about how weird your babies will look.”

I snap the Alchemy book shut. “Going to need you to back up a bit. First off, who the hell did you hear that from?”

“Hang on a jot—is it true, Lils?” that’s from Dorcas, lying flat on her stomach on the floor, flipping through a sheath of Astronomy charts.

“No, of course it’s not true!” I look exasperatedly from Dorcas, to Mary, then to Marlene, then to Ingrid, over on her bed. “Wait—have you _all_ heard this?"

Marlene shrugs meekly. “Maybe, a bit. Something like it.”

“And you all seriously thought it was true?” I demand, staggered. “That I wouldn’t tell you, if that was actually happening? Better yet—have any of you ever even seen me _chatting_ with this Martin bloke before?”

“Oh, c’mon, none of us actually believed it,” Ingrid reassures me, shooting swift, pointed glares toward Mary and Marlene and Dorcas. “I bet he started the rumor himself, he’s too bloody self-assured for his own good. The second he’s set his sights on you, he thinks you’re good as in bed together, yeah?”

From the floor, Dorcas nods vehemently in agreement. “Yeah, he’s a pompous prick, real arsehole, and we don’t like—”

“Oh, _shit,_ Lils?” Marlene cuts Dorcas off, having glanced over and found me watery-eyed, red-faced. “What’s on?”

My friends drop their respective activities to look at me with blatant distress, and it’s all too much—the shitty rumor, Martin fucking Landes—and the fact that none of it is even _close_ to the real problem. I dash at my eyes, quickly shoving my book and papers into my bag. “It’s nothing, all, just—I’ve got to go to bed, I’m rotten tired.”

I try to flee the room and evade further questions, what with my eyes that won’t unwater, tears threatening to spill, but Marlene is up and off the bed, following me out of the dormitory. She corners me in a shaded alcove between the restroom and the stairway. “Hey, hey, what’s on, really? Is this about Landes?”

“No, I can’t even—” I laugh a little, humorlessly. “I’ve only talked to the bloke, once, at a Prefect meeting—and well, I turned him down, so I've no clue where people get 'sleeping together' from that."

“Well, people are shit,” she shakes her head, tongue _tsk_ ing. “No respect for privacy, or women—especially women in power!”

I look at her, lower lip wobbling stupidly. “Marls, it’s not that I’m really upset about, honest, it’s—” my breath catches, betraying the pain under the surface. 

Her eyebrows cinch in the middle. “James?”

I nod pathetically.

“Oh, Lils, I’m sorry,” she reaches out to give my shoulders an affectionate rub. “I wish you'd—I wish you'd tell me what really happened, I mean, _everything_ that happened. I didn't know—I mean, I didn't realize you were so put off about it.”

I wipe my thumbs under my eyes. “I don't know if that will help, I don't _want_ to wallow in it, I just—I didn’t think _this_ was going to happen.” I shake my head. “I’m so thick, Marls, I just—I just _stood there_ , I couldn’t speak, or breathe, and—” Uneven, long breath. “I just let him leave. I didn’t stop him, I didn’t even try to. And now I’m miserable, and he won’t even look at me, and he's never going to talk to me again.”

“Evans,” Marlene starts, tentatively, her grip on my arm tightening. “Do you... _fancy_ him, fancy him?”

I scowl, miserably. “Is it that obvious?”

She’s got a look of such alarm on her face, like I’ve just told her I’ve scrapped all prior aspirations to become a late-in-life Quidditch champion. “Oh—you’ve got it bad. This is bad.”

“Marlene, that’s not—it’s not helpful—I _know_ it’s bad!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry—oh, gods, come here, I'm sorry.”

It’s all I can do, then, to start sobbing—dumbly, unrestrained—into Marlene’s shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

And when I was drowning in that lonely water  
All I could think of was you

-Keane, “Love is the End”

* * *

_James_

The atmosphere in the third Gryffindor boy’s dormitory on the left is overwrought—thanks, in small part, to the upcoming Potions exam that none of us quite know how to prepare for, given Slughorn’s recent and rather startling inclination to give zero suggestion of which potions would pop up during examinations; a fact which he “thinks is fair” given us being “a classful of talented N.E.W.T-level students that should grasp complicated brewings with ease.” And so “talented N.E.W.T-level students” such as ourselves are forced to stew over every use for every potion we’ve learned over the entire month-and-a-half since school began, a handy twenty-five-or-so that all amount to rather involved processes.

Peter and Remus are sprawled on the ground, leaning against their four-posters, faces flat in notes and _Advanced Potion-Making_ , Sirius flopped haphazardly across his bed. I’m straight-backed on a window seat that looks straight out over the Quidditch pitch, staring fruitlessly at the concoction for a Regermination Potion, trying and failing to imagine a world for myself where I would have enough emotional headspace to consider regerminating a plant with a potion.

I’m also trying, as usual, not to think of Lily—which, as usual, is an unsuccessful endeavor.

Potions exam aside, the tension in the room is thanks, in large part, to me and my constant failure to keep her out of my head, and the resulting dour mood. My friends are not thrilled to have my misery bunking with them in the Gryffindor tower, when I’m meant to be several staircases away, living in the Head’s quarters. I certainly wish I could be with them under happier circumstances, for less shitty reasons, but the ugliness of my outward attitude is like a mold I can’t scrub out.

If I were less stubborn, maybe, or more interested in handling sorrow in a thoughtful, constructive manner, I would talk about the sadness more, try to detach from the sourness. But the grief entrenched in What Happened is a dark, darkening place, and I am not interested in lingering. If all the immature mismanagement of emotion fell aside: I would be nothing but a shriveled, inadequate heart. 

Deflection is easier, albeit—meaner.

This gloomy Tuesday night, I’ve already had a few minor tussles with Sirius over things that absolutely don’t matter at all, like the Quidditch schedule I’ve put on, or the shirts of mine that keep somehow ending up in his nook of the dorm, slumped over things. It’s not that I _want_ to fight with him, or any of them—it’s just that whenever I open my mouth to speak, I’m provoked, on principle.

“Er—James?” It’s Remus, poking his head around to find me by the window. “Can we just go over Polyjuice, quickly? You’re better on with it than I am.”

“Please, Moons, whatever you do, don’t make him upset,” that’s Sirius, muttering quietly, as if I can’t hear every word he’s saying, as if he’s not trying to provoke me.

“I’m not upset,” I bite back—because every opportunity to bite is an opportunity to bite.

“Oh, fucking hell,” I see his mop of black hair flopping back and forth as he grumbles. “I haven’t even said anything.”

“Let’s just—” Peter is looking from Sirius’ bed towards me, anxiously, no doubt uneager for another fight, or a worse fight. “Can we go over Polyjuice? I need it too.”

“Nah, I’m gonna say _fuck_ Polyjuice for a moment, boys,” Sirius is up from his bed now, suddenly quite agitated, advancing toward me with a particular fire glowing in grey eyes. “Just get all the pissy out, Potter, okay? So we can just focus this godforsaken exam.”

“I’m not _pissy_ ,” I repeat, voice low. I feel my blood heating without my consent, for no real reason—other than to protect me from the despair tunneling through my body.

“No, no, you’re definitely pissy, I can see all over your pissy face! And I, for one, am _bloody sick of it_.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Sirius, but I—”

“You got _sacked_ , yeah?” His eyes are wild now, lit by some otherworldly annoyance. “Yeah! We know! We fucking heard about it, mate! From you! And yeah, it was by a girl that you happened to really like, and yeah, we realize this is truly awful for you, but,” he laughs sharply. “I’ve gotta say! I’m beginning to think you’re just going to act like this piece of shit for the rest of your life, and I’m not keen on that idea for you, or the rest of us!”

Every word is accurate, and stabs at me, pointed—but I’m not beyond indignance. “Listen, I’m not—”

“No, no,” he throws a hand up, stops me. “I’m not super interested in hearing whatever you’re going to say, actually.” His chest is heaving now with the exertion of the attack, which is taking on a color that I haven’t seen in him before—a strange sort of desperation, like he’s carrying something heavy and is keen to let go. “Because the best part of this whole ‘James Potter moping around treating everyone like shit because he’s had a bad go of it with Lily Evans’ is that some of the rest of us have been having some things to sort through, as well!” He throws up his hands in exasperation. “And Merlin fucking forbid we ever talk about anything other than _your_ sodding incurable pain!”

I look at him plainly now, cut with a new anxiety. “What?” I look to Peter, then Remus, who are both wearing expressions of panic. “What are you talking about?”

“Sirius,” Remus’ voice is higher than usual, strained, and he’s looking at Sirius reproachfully, a warning in his eyes.

“No, Moony, he deserves to know, yeah?”

Sirius and Remus look at one another for a long second, and I see something I don’t recognize pass between them. I close my textbook, stand up from the window seat. I’m beginning to think they murdered someone. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

Sirius nods at Remus. “Go on, then.”

After a few painful seconds of silence, Remus turns to me, slowly, eyes wide and flooded in apprehension. “Er,” his eyes flick to Sirius, briefly. “Sirius and I...kissed.”

First: Relief. No murder.

Second: Surprise. Sirius and Remus, having kissed. Okay. Unexpected, but not murder. Just two of my very best friends—lads I’ve known since I first stepped foot on the train to school seven sodding years ago —kissing. Each other.

Third: Confusion. _Where the fuck did this come from?_ _What did I miss?_

Sirius is staring right at me like he’s challenging me to lose it. Remus looks as if he’s about to faint, or throw up, or both, simultaneously. “I’m sorry—say that one more time?”

Remus sighs, a heavy, tired sigh, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Sirius and I kissed, James.”

“Well—” I have to sit back down now, because the very fabric of something as near and dear to me as Sirius and Remus and their two separate existences as my mates is unthreading right before my eyes, and I’m ill-equipped for it. The sheen of my recent, selfish fixation on personal grief is peeling back, as well, revealing all that I’ve managed to ignore, or be left out of—and in all of an instant, I’m riled with embarrassment. I glance at Peter. “Did you know about this?”

He’s hunched over his knees, like he’s ready to run if someone starts a fire. His expression is rueful, apologetic. “Sorry, Prongs. You—” his eyes fly to Sirius. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

I rub fingers over my eyes and breathe deeply. I use my new, clearer head to assess what I know:

Remus is gay—we’ve all known since third year, when he told us he was gay, point blank.

But Sirius—while I suppose he’s never described himself as exclusively straight, I assumed so based on all the women he’s dated, fawned over, fooled over, fucked over, etc, etc. Clearly, I’ve missed something.

I raise my eyes to the both of them, and try to establish from the way they’re positioned if this is a “we kissed” or “we’re kissing” scenario. I’ve no sense of timeline here, and get no clues from their body language: Remus is angled away from Sirius, arms crossed. Sirius is leaning back on the bed, on his elbows.

I take off my glasses, wipe them on my shirt, put them back on. I’ve been a truly shit friend. I mean, I knew I was being a shit friend, but not _this_ shit of a friend. I’m reeling to make up for it, to let them know that I can break out of my immature stupor, I can be there, if they need me. “I—” I have no idea where to start. I look at Remus, then Sirius. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

They both seem set slightly more at ease by this. Remus’ eyes tinge with relief. Sirius crosses his ankles.

“Is, um—” I venture, unsure how to proceed. “Is something, er, going on, then, between you two?”

Remus looks pained anew by this question. Sirius looks over at him thoughtfully. “Yeah, is something going on between us?”

I see now there are complications. I see them written all over Remus’ face.

He stands up, paces away from the bed. Sirius’ eyes follow him closely. He turns, pauses, does not look at Sirius. He’s gathering up his books and notes now, shoving them in his bookbag, shrugging into a sweater—“Pete, we’re going to the library.”

Peter looks torn, eyes roving to Sirius and me. Reluctantly, he gathers his own materials, his own sweater, and then turns to follow as Remus leaves the dorm without so much as a backwards glance.

Once they’re gone, I sit down on Remus’ bed, opposite Sirius. He sits up, rising from his elbows. When he meets my eyes, I find that his haughty attitude has fallen off, replaced by vulnerable trepidation.

My chest twists. _How could I have missed this?_ “Talk to me.”

He spreads his fingers down his thighs, gripping. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Okay, you kissed, start there. When?”

“Just before school,” he answers quietly. He stares at his knees. “But, to be honest, there were a couple of close calls, in Iceland.”

“Sirius,” I prod, gently as I can. “Do you—do you fancy him?”

This he takes a slow minute to chew on. I watch his fingers contract and release. “It’s just—” Contract, release. “It’s confusing. I—” his eyes cut to mine. “You know me, Prongs, you know that I’m apt to, er, _jump_ before looking over the edge, most times, and I’ve always felt comfortable with that, and with, you know, who _I am_ , and all that, but—”

He stands up now, agitated by his own speech. His hands have become fidgety, tugging through his hair, slipping around his collar, his waistline. “But this summer, with him, it was like some part of me has been fucking, I dunno, _camouflaged_ my whole life, and I just sort of tripped across it, like a sodding rock, and it—” he pauses, hands on hips, turns to me. “It’s not as earth-shattering as I thought, really, to look at him—to think of him, differently. It was maybe just there, underneath, and I was too thick to see past myself.” His hands fall from his hips, and he’s back on the bed across from me now, shaking his head. “Anyway. I’ve no straight answer for you. It’s new. I’m figuring it out.”

“Certainly there’s no _straight_ answer here,” I muse, testing the waters. “Regardless of your confidence level.”

“Fucking hell, Potter,” he’s smiling, and it feels good to see that. “Let’s save the jokes till Moony turns a corner.”

I blanch. “What’s going on with him?”

Sirius shakes his head again. “He’s...conflicted. He doesn’t want to screw up the friendship.”

“Right.” I pause. “But it’s a bit more than friendship now, yeah?”

A smile tugs his mouth up at one end. “I’d say so.”

“And you—” I look down at my own hands, planted solidly on my legs. “You liked the, er, kissing?”

I ask because I’m genuinely curious, but also because I’m worried, slightly, for Remus. I want Sirius to be happy, of course, but I don’t want him to treat Remus like an experiment, like a means of figuring out his own identity.

“Yeah,” Sirius murmurs, and his tone makes me look up at him. His expression is distant, far away from me, far from this dormitory. “Easy. Like breathing.”

A rush of air through my chest. I’ve felt that ease before, myself. Hands slipping through thick red hair, her body like a lifeline. “Fucksake,” I release a laugh of relief. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he looks at me, and he’s smirking, now. “Did a bit more than kiss, really, leave it to him not to reveal as much.”

“Oh?”

He rubs his lips together, nods. “Turns out wanking works rather the same on another bloke.”

“Christ,” I laugh a bit, shaking my head, uneager to wrap my mind around the image of _either_ of them wanking, separately or together. “Listen, Sirius, I’m really sorry. I’ve been shit. I wish you would’ve told me about all this, earlier. I didn’t—I had no idea.”

“It’s okay, Prongs, don’t beat yourself up,” he rises, stretches his hands up over his head. “And I’m sorry, too—you know, for giving you such hell earlier. I just—maybe that wasn’t the best way to tell you—and I’m sure I’ll get an earful from you-know-who about that, later—but, I couldn’t go on like nothing else was, you know, afoot.”

“I deserved that. You know I did. I’m just glad to know, now, and you know—” I hold his eyes steady. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“I appreciate it. Really. Because, well,” a rueful laugh. “Can’t exactly talk to Remus about it. And Peter is being like, real fucking skittish about the deal. Rather think he’s morphing into his rat-self a bit more every day.”

I can only laugh at the image. “Well, should we go to the library, too? I don’t think there’s any sort concentrating to be had here.”

“Alright. Fuck Potions, but alright.” Sirius agrees, reaching for his books and bag. I do the same. As we leave the dorm for the spiral staircase, he grabs my arm, stops me. “James, listen, I know things aren’t easy, for you right now, with—” he shakes his head. “With her. And I _am_ sorry about that, genuinely, even if you’re being a fucker about it. I know it’s—I know it’s killing you.”

The flood of feelings is unimaginable. Like a wave crashing into me from behind, when I didn’t even know I was standing in the water. I swallow, and hope he can’t see the pain washing over me in the ill-lit staircase. “S’alright. I’ll be fine.”

He holds my arm for a second longer, then lets go. He knows I’m lying. We descend the stairs.

***

In the library, the studying is very solemn and intense for a good three hours. Somewhere in that timespan, I lock eyes with Remus from across the table and raise my eyebrows meaningfully. His eyes flick briefly to Sirius—who is somehow sitting sideways in his chair—then back to me. He shrugs, smiling, as if to say _what can I do?_ and I grin, shaking my head at him. I take the liberty of asking a question courtesy of a quick (though obscene) hand gesture—to which Remus’ eyes go wide, and his face goes pink, and he’s mouthing _oh fuck you_ and I’m mouthing back _me? I thought it was_ and inclining my head in Sirius’ direction. Remus buries his face in his hands.

***

_Lily_

I poke my spoon around a bowl of mashed potatoes. The surrounding din of the great hall feels more crushing than usual—perhaps I owe this to the grating Transfiguration exams we’ve all just had: A two-part, four-hour ordeal, both oral and written. It’s all anyone can talk about—and I wish they wouldn’t. The stress leading up the exam hasn’t lifted from me quite yet; the ghost of it remains.

My friends, however, feel just the opposite.

“All getting smashed tonight, yeah?” Marlene is saying. “I’ve got loads of that wine leftover from Tia’s last haul.”

“Ought you be talking about Tia’s wine-running business in front of the _Head Girl_?” from Dorcas, in mock horror.

I roll my eyes. “As if this is the first Marlene-related alcohol-rule-breaking of the year.”

Ingrid takes Marlene’s chin between her fingers. “So proud of my repeat-offender alcohol-related rule-breaker!”

“You’re just saying that because you’re not the one shelling out the money for said rule-breaking,” Marlene teases, leaning in to kiss the hand that teases her.

“Say, ladies, I’ve actually got a bottle of _gin_ , I think, hidden away,” that’s from Mary, eyes gone wide.

“Oh, you know I’d love to willfully forget the last time I puked my entire body weight in gin.”

“Which time, though?”

“Oh, shove off, MacDonald.”

“Meadowes, _you’re_ the one puking it up, not me.”

James Potter walks by where we’re seated, heading to the hall doors. My eyes follow him out, briefly.

I’ve missed something—Dorcas is waving a hand in front of my face. “Well, will you?”

“We’d love if you came, Lils,” Ingrid adds. “You can sleep in the extra bed!”

“As tempting as getting drunk on a Merlin forsaken _Wednesday night_ is, I’m going to have to say no, ladies, I’m sorry.” I smile around at my lunatic friends. “Some of us have been forsaking our potion replenishing duties all month and have a long night ahead of us.”

“Ugh, she’d just rather hang out with Slughorn than us.” Marlene, whining.

“Either that,” Ingrid muses, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Or she’s meeting Landes in the dungeons and really has us all fooled.”

This earns her a shove on the arm from me. “Will you quit it about Landes?”

Ingrid shrugs, grinning. “I’m just a sucker for the ‘sneaking around with a Ravenclaw’ trope, I’m sorry, Lils. It’s Dorcas’ fault there, anyway.”

“Fucking hell, speaking of Doyle,” Dorcas starts, as if she’s coming to from a long sleep. “I owe him, like, three handjobs.”

“ _Three_ handjobs _?_ You _owe_ him this?”

The conversation swerves dramatically in the direction of what women do or do not owe their clandestine Ravenclaw lovers, which I am sure to tune out quickly, for my own health and safety. I bid my friends farewell not soon after this, eager to get a start on my night of brewing.

Declining the invitation to get sloshed does, indeed, have to do with avoiding a nasty hangover in Thursday-morning Arithmancy, but I really do have a load of monthly potion replenishing to get on with. October is drawing to its end, and I’ve not had a chance to brew, given a disorienting recent tumult of schoolwork and Head duties. Fortunately, after the Transfiguration exam, I’ve hit the mid-way to semester end reprieve in work, so I’ve finally got the time. And, in a most pathetic way, the silence and solitude of the dungeon storeroom—somewhere I know I won’t be bothered—sounds absolutely lovely.

Naturally, then, providence has something else in mind for me entirely.

***

The first odd thing is the Potions classroom door is swung completely open.

The second odd thing is that as I approach the open-doored classroom, I hear voices coming from inside. Voices that grow in volume and agitation—and familiarity—the closer I get.

I tell myself it’s impossible that the people I _think_ are in that room, are in that room. I close my eyes, swallow swiftly. Is there no possibility of me being allowed to brew, in peace, on this night?

With care, I sidle up to the door, and take a tentative peek into the room. Standing round the left side, in front of the stacked supply shelves—two figures with tense, distrustful postures.

I scramble out of sight, back to the wall, worst fears confirmed: James Potter and Severus Snape.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Pulse immediately set on edge. I can’t even begin to imagine what set of events would have brought them both here, together—is this where James was headed, when I saw him leave the hall not ten minutes ago? What was he doing down here? Severus’ presence is a bit more likely, given his own favorable relationship with Slughorn—but the two of them, here at the same time? Either an unfortunate coincidence, or an on-purpose meeting. Both seem wildly unlikely. And yet—here they are—and here _I_ am, peering in on the scene from the doorway.

I don’t allow myself any more contemplation of the _how_ —all I really need to know, in this moment, is that James and Severus’ rivalry is irresponsible, dangerous; and that never once has an encounter between them ended well.

Refocusing on their voices from inside, I catch the tail end of something Severus spits out: “—proof of that, Potter.”

And James laughing sharply, “Oh, that’s fucking _rich_ , you expect me to be deterred by not having proof? As if I need physical evidence to know you’re a godamn blood supremacist piece of shit! I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you to start _killing_ people—if you had an _ounce_ of brain, Snape, you’dve changed yourself when you had the chance, when you had someone that believed you capable of change, because now you’re so far gone, you son of a bitch—”

“You shut your fucking mouth!”

There’s a scuffling sound, feet on ground, and I panic, spin round to look into the room just in time to watch Severus jam the end of his wand into James’ neck.

There’s no deliberation: I’m rounding the corner and stalking inside the classroom, both heads turning to look, and there’s the simultaneous sound of “ _Lily_ ”—James’ voice slightly strangled, a twist of something on his face, maybe pain—and “ _Evans_ ”—from Severus, growled, venomous.

“What the hell is going on in here?” There’s no keeping the urgent fear from my voice—it pulses through me like a current—I’m wired for a fight, for quick action. James swallows hard, the frantic cords of his neck twitching; Severus’ wand bobs with the movement

My heart palpitates.

“Gods, please leave,” James begs, eyes all pupil.

Severus’ inky hair swings into his eyes, obscuring them from me. The pain I feel looking at him is inexplicable, fresh, as if it never left—a flood of remembered grief washes over: The excruciating wound of our severed friendship; his betrayal, the turn toward darkness; my desperation to save him—my inability to save him.

Though my legs are starting to shake, and my voice is unsteady, I can’t just stand here and _not_ try to appeal to our past—“Sev, will you—” I step closer, just slightly, a hesitant hand raised, as if in peace—I see the warning in James’ eyes as I approach, but I don’t stop, I have to _try_ something, anything—“Just put the wand away, okay? Whatever it is—” I lick my lips, frantically, throat dry in fear. “You can just leave, right now, nothing’s—nothing’s worth—”

“How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your _thick_ skull—” his voice is stinging, and liquid, like poison. His wand quavers at James’ throat. “I don’t need _help_ from a fucking _mudblood_.”

The second the agonizing sentence is uttered, several things happen at once:

My feet start moving forward, fast, without my body knowing how, or why, or to where—Snape’s mouth forms a curling, unfamiliar word—and arcs of blinding light dispel from the end of his wand—and my arm, thrown somewhere in the space between James and Severus’ bodies—and a hot, blinding pain slicing at my shoulder, my jaw—a scream (mine?), wordless—pain (mine?): unfathomable, every color at once, but also, somehow, colorless—the world grainy at the edges, dissolving, white noise—somewhere, a muffled pleading—my body slanting backward, like falling into water—black bleeding in through the sides—and the final, startling white; oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3

When you're young, you just run  
But you come back to what you need

—Taylor Swift, “This Love”

* * *

_James_

Everything seems both slow and quick, then, like bodies underwater, caught up in a current.

Lily falling against me, limp, head rolling to the side, a bright river of blood from the side of her face, my inadequate hand trying to temper the flow, coming away scarlet and wet—the fabric of her robes gashed through at her shoulder, as if cut by an invisible sword—heart hammering angrily, frantically, maniacal—I’m looking up at Snape, who’s motionless, useless, wide-eyed, wand frozen midair; I barely hear myself screaming—“what the fuck did you do? What did you do to her? What the fuck did you do to her?”—but it doesn’t matter, anyway, I get no answer, none at all; he startles at the sound of my voice—tears his gaze from Lily, wilted in my arms, looks at me, vivid fear in his eyes; and then he flees the room, like a shadow passing.

There’s no time to waste with anger or confusion—Lily is bleeding, bad, that’s something I do know—and the blood is everywhere, and I’ve no means to stop it, except awkwardly maneuvering her body into my arms, and flying from the room, legs moving without me much noticing—thanking my lucky stars that I’m practiced in secret passages to the infirmary—that I’m well-versed in emergency protocol.

I block from my mind: _Lily bleeding out in my arms. Lily bleeding out in my arms. Lily bleeding out in my arms._

The Infirmary: Shadowed and empty. I bang inelegantly through the door, yelling, “Madam Pomfrey?” and she’s rushing out from her office, instantly, face contorting in distress when she sees the slumped figure in my arms, demanding, “What’s happened?”

“She’s been hit with a spell I didn’t recognize,” I manage, voice clotted in dread; I don’t allow myself to look down at her bloody face—“which was meant for me—she—she’s been cut, deep—shoulder, jaw, she’s bleeding—”

“Quickly, Mr. Potter, the bed,” Madam Pomfrey’s guiding me toward a cot, helping me lay down Lily’s body, gently as we can— “How long since infliction?”

“Not two minutes—”

“Her robes, help me with her robes—”

We lift her and tug off the robes, find her bloody shoulder. And this seems the wrong color red, this dark red—this is dead, dried, darkening blood, this isn’t—

Madam Pomfrey sees the wounds up close, and her eyes widen briefly in shock. “Dark magic—” she’s reaching frantically for her wand—“Time is short— going to have to rouse, her, now, Mr. Potter, for bloodflow reversal, and you’ll need to help restrain her, it will be very painful, but necessary, if we’re to have no long term effects—” her voice is brusque, deadly serious, and I am paralyzed, heart clattering against ribs, but somehow I nod, watching the healer’s mouth as she murmurs a few words: Lily gasps to life immediately, head flying up from the pillow, then collapsing back in the next second, a twisted pain contorting her face, frantic, dilated eyes on Madam Pomfrey, whipping around to find me at the other side of the bed—her voice, hoarse, high, terrified—“James? What’s—”

“No talking,” Madam Pomfrey says sternly, ripping through Lily’s shirt at the wounded shoulder, to clear the path, hard eyes turning to me. “She’ll need to hold onto something—”

I take Lily’s hand in both of mine, grip her tightly—breath stunted in my lungs—“A very intense pain, here, Miss Evans,” Pomfrey intones. “Over quickly, though. Be sure to breathe.”

Lily looks back to me, eyes like caverns caved-in by fear, and I clutch her hand like my life depends on it (it does).

Madam Pomfrey traces her wand over the wound on Lily’s cheek and shoulder, muttering an incantation that sounds almost like a song—a strangled noise from Lily’s throat, her fingers vicelike on mine, torso and legs undulating uncomfortably against the cot—almost immediately, the flow of blood seems to ease; Madam Pomfrey brings a cloth to each site, wiping away spell residue, then begins the incantation a second time, at a slightly louder volume—now, the wounds seem to be knitting themselves together, healing—Lily spasms again, and I bring a gentle hand down on her leg, murmuring, “ _it’s okay, you’re okay_ ,” hoping she can hear me through the pain—Madam Pomfrey repeats the incantation one more time, and a pulsing blue light hovers in a cloud at Lily’s jaw and shoulder, then disappears in a fine powder, settling down onto the skin.

Lily’s eyes fall shut at the contact.

Madam Pomfrey reaches for a jar on the bedside table and unscrews it, retrieving tiny sprigs of green I recognize as dittany, which she gently eases into each wound—the skin absorbs the healing herb, and the wounds transform, before our eyes, into long, jagged red slashes, as if they’d been healing on their own for several days. She recites a few basic healing charms over the wounds—cleansing, sanitizing, drying, setting—then asks, mildly, “Miss Evans? Can you hear me?”

Lily opens her eyes, weakly; nods.

“Very well, then. Time for a sound rest.” She turns to me. “Stay with her a moment.”

_As if I could leave._

As Madam Pomfrey rises and heads back in the direction of her office, Lily shifts her head toward me, slowly. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion, confusion, pain. “James?” it sounds as if her mouth is filled with cloth. “What’s happened?”

I ease my fingers on her hand, and leg, reach out to smooth back wild strands of hair from her face, carefully avoiding her injured cheek. My fingers are shaking. I hardly think I’ve left the Potion’s room—her screams, Snape’s empty eyes, the stream of heavy blood. “It’s—just rest now, Lily, you’re going to be okay, I promise.” I can’t keep the shaking from my voice. I don’t realize I’ve got wet eyes until I feel tears on my cheeks. “You’re—” I swallow, uneven. “You’re okay, now.”

Madam Pomfrey is returning now, and I press a gentle kiss to Lily’s hand, then release it to wipe quickly at my eyes. The healer doses out a half-glass of green, sludgy sleep potion and helps Lily sit up to drink it down. She is drowsy immediately, laying back down, looking back at me through half-closed eyes. The next second, she’s asleep; chest rising and falling with even breaths.

Madam Pomfrey turns to me. “Mr. Potter? I’ll need you to come with me.”

***

It seems a different life—a different universe—when I return to a dark dormitory sometime in the early-morning hours. Everyone is fast asleep, safe and warm beneath covers. I kick off my shoes, loosen my tie, sit down on my bed, unsteadily. Probably I need a shower. Probably I need a long sleep. But I can’t fathom either, mind retracing the long walk to Dumbledore’s office; his kind, listening eyes; the anxiety quavering my voice; his fingers steeping beneath his chin, pensive; the steady words, “you’re not to have contact with Mr. Snape—I will speak with him first thing in the morning—Madam Pomfrey will see to Miss Evans’ full recovery—I thank you for your verisimilitude, Mr. Potter—and urge you to get some rest for yourself;” my heavy steps back through empty corridors, all the way to Gryffindor tower.

I think of Lily, sleeping her potion-induced sleep halfway across the castle. I think how close I was to losing her.

From the bed next to mine: rustling, and bleary, blinking eyes— “Prongs? Where’ve you been?” Remus, half-asleep—I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, I choke on whatever I would have said—he’s rubbing at his eyes, sitting up, perhaps seeing the pain in my posture, the redness in my eyes. “James?” he presses, sitting up. “What’s happened?”

***

_Lily_

“Temperature has evened out quite nicely, Miss Evans. And the healing is coming along well—here, take a look, if you like.” Madam Pomfrey hands me a small mirror, which I take, tentatively. I look at myself in its reflection, amazed to find only a faint, jagged pink line down the edge of my cheek, disappearing along the jaw. The wonders of medical magic. “Scarring will be minimal with the facial wound, if at all,” the healer assures me as I return the mirror to her. “A little soreness is to be expected with your shoulder injury, however, so I’d like you to take an easing potion each night before bed for the next week.”

“And for the matter of the _cause_ of your wounds—” The nurse sets her lips in a hard, thin line. “I’ve had a discussion with the Headmaster, and he’d like to see you at your earliest convenience.” For a moment, her eyebrows pinch together, in a rare display of hesitation. “I managed to quell the effects of the dark magic only because of how quickly you were brought to me—and you have Mr. Potter to thank for that. You’re lucky there will be no long-term repercussions.”

I shudder a bit, at the edge of the cot, thinking of what sort of long-term repercussions she might mean. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, for everything.”

“Very well,” the nurse nods her head, handing me a small bag of potion vials. “One each night before bed, for a week.”

I thank her again and leave the Infirmary. It’s late Friday afternoon—apparently, I slept through a full day and a half. My shoulder aches, faintly, as does my head, a bit—but, otherwise, I feel fine. And I’m compelled, desperately, to find James. It’s nearing five, the last period of the day drawing to an end, so I make my way to the second floor and reach the Charms classroom just as class lets out. I hover back from the crowd, hoping not to draw attention to myself—I’m not sure what’s known of my absence. I think briefly of Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Ingrid and hope James said something to them—though it’s possible they visited me during my deep, dreamless sleep.

The Marauders—amazingly, somehow, Black is still in N.E.W.T-level Charms—bring up the rear of the crowd, talking intensely, heads inclined together, bodies angled inward, as if they’re a single organism. It’s a second before any of them notice me hovering—and it only takes that split second of one-sided observation for me to become anxious and unsure. But then Remus catches sight of me, and he knocks James in the arm, and James looks over, eyes widening—he strides over to me immediately, sweeping his gaze over my face, to the jagged line at my cheek, and asks, anxiously, “Lily? Are you—you’re alright?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m—” I peek around him to his hovering friends.

James turns, swiftly, says, “Don’t you lot have somewhere to be?”

An undignified scoff from Sirius, then the group walks off, leaving just James and me in a quick-emptied corridor. I glance back at him. He’s immensely concerned, I can tell—he’s looking at me like I’m an invalid escaped from mandatory asylum. “Poppy let you go?”

“ _Poppy_ ,” I chide. “Yes, she said I’m good as new. A little achy, is all.”

“I can’t believe—” his eyes are intent on my cheek. “There’s hardly anything there.”

I gulp, remembering slivers of that night—pain, white-hot, then darkness; waking in a flood of confusion, heat, a bloody shoulder and jaw, James, panicked at my side, Madam Pomfrey, eyes ablaze, wand steady. I can hardly imagine what I looked like, flopping around on the cot. The pain of the healing antidote was immense, perhaps worse than the initial wounds. It feels blurry in my memory, no hard, real edges. If it weren’t for the physical marks—I might believe it had all been some fever dream.

If James sees this pass through my eyes, I’m not sure—but I do see some of it pass through his.

“You saved my life.” It’s a simple truth.

“Well, I—”

“No, James,” I grab his hand. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

He swallows, looks down at our hands. Cuts his head to the side. “You thought I’d just let you bleed out in the dungeons? Like some common Slytherin?”

If he’s joking to undercut the pain in his voice, it’s not working. There’s a second where I hesitate, temper my desire to reach for him—but I hurdle that insecurity, stepping close, pulling him into my arms, face burrowing in his shoulder. The next instant his arms are wrapped firmly around my back, and I feel him shudder a shaky breath into my neck—and it’s a simple kind of safety, being here: His real shoulder under my cheek, his real neck cupped in my palm, his real scent surrounding me—parchment, pinewood, boy sweat—his real fingers sliding up through my hair. Lungs release a long, steady stream of air. His fingers tighten at my back.

It’s not a catch-all. There’s plenty to be said; plenty to apologize for; plenty of hard things to talk through. But this feels like a start _—_ a good start.

When I emerge from his neck, he follows suit—meets my eyes. We stare. I let my arms fall away from him; his do the same. I ask, quietly, “Do you think maybe—we could talk?”

He nods quickly. “Tonight?”

This hope of him agreeing to see me again, and so soon: overwhelming. “Okay.”

“Where?”

“Well...there’s a whole common room in the Head’s quarters.”

He screws his mouth into a reprimanded smile. “Well, that’s perfect—I’ve got practice in a bit, here, but—I can come after that.”

There’s a curl of thick hair flopped over his temple, and it makes him seem like a younger version of himself—and this warms me to him, impossibly, like I want to hold his hand, protect him from things I have no control over, like the world, all of the hate in it, all the people wielding ugly words.

No question of _if I love him_ remains; he has, irrefutably, become very dear to me.

His hesitant finger brushing at my healing jaw; I close my eyes to the touch, briefly. “You can’t know how glad I am to see you,” he whispers, low. I swallow.

He takes his finger away, clears his throat. Then he’s leaving, looking at me over his shoulder as he goes.

***

_James_

I cut practice short because I can’t concentrate one jot, and nobody is benefitting from a captain that keeps forgetting the terms for all manner of Quidditch-related balls—namely “quaffle” and “snitch”—so I send the team off, shower quickly, and set out for the fourth-floor, searching for the portrait of the tall, straight-backed woman in a long, white nightgown.

She is, indeed, tall, and straight-backed, and wearing a long, white nightgown. She has high-cut, severe cheekbones, dark eyes; hers is a strike-fear-through-the-heart sort of beauty. She stands next to a hatch-desk covered in all manner of parchment and ink wells and open books.

“And who are you?” her voice is a long dark river in an arcane, shadowed forest.

Its effect on me is startling—I lose footing. “Er,” I clear my throat. “I’m James Potter, um—I’m Head Boy.”

She regards me suspiciously. “I’m expected to believe that? When you haven’t shown up here for _months_?”

“Er,” I flatten out the left side of my robe, flash her the Head Boy badge. “I know I haven’t been by, yet, but, um—it _is_ me.”

The woman leans forward in her portrait, squints at the badge. “And how am I to know you’ve not stolen that from the _real_ Head Boy?”

I blanch. “Would it help if I gave you the password?’

“Yes of course that would help, young man.” She snaps, tersely.

“Alright, then: Mimbulus mimbletonia.”

Her lips set into stiff line. “Surprisingly, correct.”

“So can I...go in?”

In lieu of a verbal response, the portrait swings out. Apparently, I’ve got some work to do on the sour-faced-lady-in-white-nightgown front.

I duck in through the portrait hole and find myself in a common room only slightly smaller than its Gryffindor equivalent. There’s a long, plush couch and two comfy armchairs in a semicircle before the fireplace, a sturdy darkwood table and chairs, a bookcase and small teacart in the opposite corner. In the back of the room, a staircase that I imagine leads to separate Head Girl and Head Boy suites. Banners of tiny maroon-and-gold flags hang from the fireplace and bookshelf: A Lily-touch, no doubt.

I cross the room to look out a tall narrow window adjacent the table and chairs. The geographical location of the Head’s quarters is confounding to me—and when I peek out the glass, see the sprawl of greenhouses, the Forbidden Forest beyond, I feel slightly more grounded, directionally.

Footsteps on the stairs, Lily’s voice, “James? That you?”

I turn from the window to find an even more grounding sight: Lily, bright-eyed, in a green knit sweater, hair in a tousled twist at her neck—smiling at me.

“Certainly that woman wouldn’t let just anyone in here,” I point out. “She barely let _me_ in.”

Lily’s smile widens. She wraps sweatered-arms around her stomach. “To be fair, she’s never seen you till today.”

“Right you are.”

Lily stands at the base of the stairs. This next part is uncharted. It’s possible neither one of us knows how to proceed.

She has a good semblance of a start, though. “Tea?”

“Please.”

I sit down at the wooden table and watch Lily set to work at the teacart. There’s a water-heating incantation, a flurry of tea leaves, the splash of milk and sugar.

A detail I am distinctively pained by: She remembers how I take my tea.

Lily approaches the table with two steaming mugs, handing one over to me. Our knuckles brush, briefly. She takes a seat. “Did you talk with Dumbledore?”

I nod, curling my fingers to the warm mug. “I went right after—” a catch of pain, and I swallow it back. “Wednesday night.”

She chews at her bottom lip, brow stitched with concern. “And have you, er, seen Severus, since?”

A flash of anger at my temple. Fingers tighten. “No. You’ve—?”

“No, no,” Lily shakes her head. She’s tooling with the sleeve of her sweater. Her leg is shaking. I want to reach out, to comfort her. But I’m not sure where the line is, now. Where we stand. What timeline we’ve landed in. “I know that what happened was...really bad,” she looks up at me. “And that whatever spell he cast could have seriously injured you—”

“Could’ve injured _me_?” I interject. “Lily, he—he could’ve killed _you_!”

“Yes, I know,” she returns, calmly. “But I mean—he meant to hit you, not me. And, well—that’s not what I’m on about, even. It’s just—I know it was a very serious thing he did, no matter who he intended to do it to—and that maybe you’re thinking he deserves punishment, not just from Dumbledore, but from you.”

I take a drink of tea; avoid her eyes.

“Well, I’m asking you to reconsider. To leave it alone.” She reaches out toward me, rests her fingers on my forearm. “For me.”

I stare down at her fingers—out from the site, tingles flare, stretching down fingers, up through the shoulder. Even her smallest touch, like a beacon. I swallow. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I look back up to her. “If you want me to, I’ll avoid him for the rest of my life.”

She’s surprised I acquiesced so quickly—she must have thought I’d argue more, that it would turn in to a row. This is still her blind spot: She has no idea how much I love her.

“He’s just not worth it, James. He’s—he’s hurt, and in pain, and is surrounded by bad influences, by people who only know how to hate, and—he’s handled it in hateful ways.”

“He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,” I spit, cutting my head to the side.

“I’m not trying to sympathize,” her voice quiet. “He’s changed. He used to—” there’s a pain I can’t understand, here, her history with Snape, how badly he’s hurt her in the past. I don’t understand it, but I don’t like seeing her hurt, no matter what the cause. I cover her hand on my arm with my own, squeeze. I can’t help it.

“I’m through with him. There’s nothing I can do, now, to help.” Lily clears her throat, removes her hand, takes a long sip of tea. Standing up, now, pacing back from the table. “There’s—there’s something else.”

I watch as she pauses, tucks some hair behind an ear, leans back slightly to perch on the arm of the couch. “I can only speak for myself—but I think there might be something to say for speaking plainly with one another, now—and will you hear me out, for a second?”

As if I wouldn’t follow her into a burning fire, if she asked me to. “Of course.”

“Well, I—I want to apologize.”

She looks over at me, fleetingly. My eyes, steady on her.

She barrels onward. “For how I acted, toward you, at the end of the summer. I—” she inhales, deeply, and the buoyancy of this breath carries her forward, like a hull through water. “I don’t want to make any sort of excuse for myself, because I know it won’t change anything—but I know now why I acted the way I did, and it’s because I was scared.” A lingering pause. Quieter—“I was scared the whole summer, but I didn’t— _couldn’t_ —admit that to myself, because it was so much easier to ignore the fear than to face it, and be swallowed by it and—” she worries her fingers over the edges of her sweater. “I should have been honest. With you, and with myself.”

A long exhale. “I’m sorry, James.” Tea going cold at my fingertips. I have no grief to spare. “For how I acted, and for how I took advantage of you, and for how I hurt you.” The last part, garbled, cut in half by an unsteady breath. It nicks at the skin on the back of my neck.

I examine myself for the residue of the hurt she describes—and find that the remaining pain is dull.

I held onto it for so long, with such defiance, such determination to be miserable, that it’s withered away into something incalculably small—something that could fit it in the palm of my hand. And maybe I should be surprised by how desperate I am to forgive her, to put it all in the past, behind us—but, after all, is this not the principle I have followed, for all the time I’ve known her?

Lily is standing up from the arm of the couch, now, hands propped apathetically on her hips, like she’s not sure where else to put them. I stand up, too, lean back against the table, facing her.

“In the spirit of speaking plainly,” I begin. “You’re—it’s just that I forgive you, if I even need to, if that’s necessary, after all, because—” I tuck my hands into my pockets because they’ll be useless there, restless anywhere else. “I’ve been acting—I’ve been cold, and rude, and—I can only justify my behavior by saying it in the name of self-preservation.” Shake my head. “And that’s no good excuse, it’s just—if I’d let myself to look at you, talk to you, be around you—it’s just—anyway, I would’ve gone mad. It was easier to act like it wasn’t affecting me as badly as it was, like I was fine—and it was a rubbish way to treat you,” I assert, looking up at her. “I’ve been a complete prick, Lils, I’m sorry.”

She folds her arms around herself. “I can’t blame you, really.”

“Well, you should.”

“Well, then, I forgive you.”

Mirrored half-smiles.

She smooths her sweater down, fidgeting. “What now?”

It’s a fair question. And I’m not prepared to give a reasonable answer. It seems enough that she’s here, with me, open, on the precipice of something better. “I don’t want things to...go back to how they were.”

“I don’t want that, either,” she says. A beat of silence. Then— “I miss you.”

Air rushes through my chest. “I miss you, too.”

We’re looking at each other, and for a long minute. This is new existence. Moving forward looks different. She is nervous, I can tell. She is bashful, too, which I don’t understand.

Somewhere in the looking, there is her stepping forward, and regarding me with a gentle care I’ve not seen; a kind that makes me weak. What I want, from here on out, is just an echo of a sentiment I voiced sometime in the summer, behind a supermarket— _Lily,_ _it’s whatever you want. It’s on your terms._ This remains true. If there is a ship, I am the wooden structure; she is at the helm. Unmapped waters surround.

She looks up at me, not two steps away. I take away one of those spaces, drawn to her. 

“You are better versed in these feelings,” quiet-voiced. Vulnerable. “And I am still learning, and the learning is slow. But—this is important to me.” A pause. “You're important to me.”

Swimming in her eyes: pain, affection, trepidation. I hang on every word. “What I mean to say, really, is that I want you in my life.” That part’s soft and breathless; she’s staring at her hands. “If you’ll have me, that is.” Shrugs, tempers the magnitude of her statement.

“Lily,” Something all-consuming here. “It’s—there’s no question, even. You tell me the pace. I’m—I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She seems tipped over the precipice. Nervous brow. “But—you’re okay with slow? With me...catching up?”

 _How does she not know?_ “Lily,” I say, again, gentle, desperate. “You must know.”

She’s biting her lower lip; maybe trying to stop its desperate wobble. She’s reaching out, she’s taking my hands as they come out of my pockets, gripping my fingers, tight. Her face is falling forward, and caught in my chest, and there’s a muffled sort of sob, straight into my sweater, and I wrap my arms around her, gather her close, close my eyes against her hair.

Maybe, if we stand still enough, we will become statues of our former selves. A monument to mistakes made—a reminder, for the future.


	4. Chapter 4

May never come but I'm willing to wait  
What can I say? I'm a man of the faith

—Villagers, “A Trick of the Light”

* * *

_Lily_

“Okay, wait, how—what’s Dumbledore done with Snape, then?”

“Dor, would you keep your voice down? Don’t want everyone—”

“—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just a bit _insane_ , yeah? That he wouldn’t be _expelled_ after pulling a stunt like that!”

I take a long drink of coffee. “I understand what you’re saying, trust me, I do—but, I just want to put it all behind me, okay? I’m not—I won’t be speaking to him again, ever, if that makes you feel better.”

“Feel better?” Marlene whispers, fiercely, from my left. “Lils, he used dark _fucking_ magic on you, and he’s just sitting over there, eating breakfast, like nothing even happened!”

“I know, I know, okay, alright? It upsets me just as much, really, you’ve no idea.” I rub a hand over my jaw, the barely visible scar. “Can we just not talk about it, anymore, please? I’d really love to complain about something else, anything else. Is there—something mundane—we can discuss, instead? Transfiguration scores, maybe?”

My friends are all looking at me in obvious distress, furrowed brows, nervous eyes. Ingrid speaks up. “Sure, Lils, if that’s what you want—I, for one, have a bone to pick with my Transfiguration score.”

Marlene eyes me, uneasily, for a second more—then relents, turning to her girlfriend. “Is it because you neglected to turn in not one, but _two_ essays, not last week?”

“No, actually, that had nothing to do with it, Bouvier just has it out for me, I’m convinced.”

“Ok, Evans just wants to change the subject from hate crimes to _Transfiguration_ so she can brag about her own superior grade, honestly,” Mary chides from across the table, buttering up a piece of toast.

“Not true at all,” I turn, trying out a glare on her, but somehow only managing a smile, grateful for the respite from Snape-conversation. “I’m infamously humble.”

Dorcas still has a look of trepidation. “If you’re not okay, you’ll say, yeah?”

“Yes, Dorcas,” I say, quietly. “I’ll say.”

Mary is shaking her head to herself. “ _Hugely_ superior scores, if we’re all being honest. Best in the class.”

“Mary, c’mon,” I roll my eyes, reaching for the carafe of coffee to pour myself another. “I don’t hold a candle to your Herbology performance.”

“No candle holding!” Marlene is shrieking, and we all jump, a little, at the shrillness.

“Gods, babe, what’s wrong?” Ingrid is laughing, uneasily, wide-eyed.

Marlene slams her hands down on the table, gripping its edges, face whipping around to us all. “This castle is _not_ to burn down until I am allowed to drunkenly venture to The Three Broomsticks afterhours!”

“Burn down?” Dorcas is shaking her head in confusion. “What the hell are on about, McKinnon?”

“Okay, Lily Evans, waltzing around carrying a _candle_? We all know how that ends.” Marlene raises her eyebrows. “ _Huge_ fire.”

“Fucking Christ, Marlene, it was _one time_ with the fire, and I put it out _so_ quickly, if you’ll remember honestly what happened—and your curtain was _fine_ , really, barely singed at all.”

The group has dissolved into rather cruel laughter at my expense—which I’m absolutely alright with, given the alternative. I roll my eyes at my friends, who I love, fearsomely, despite all their misgivings. “You know what? You’re really joys, all of you, every single one of you.”

Soon we’re all away in our separate directions, off to different floors and classrooms, joining the flood of students from all Houses out of the great hall and into the day. I keep a close eye on the back of Dorcas’ head through the chaos, relishing the sensation of being caught up in the crowd, the babble and delight—a feeling I haven’t fully _felt_ in months. It's sublime just to soak it all in; friends having intense, quiet conversations on the way to class, couples giggling and reaching for each other’s hands, Professors putting their heads down and elbowing their way through the crowd—second years getting reprimanded by Prefects who notice me out of the corner of their eye, smile and nod, in solidarity, then return to their Prefect duties.

It’s catharsis. I breathe it in all the way to Charms.

As Dorcas and I take our seats, pulling out textbooks and homework, I’m sneaking a not-so-sneaky glance to my right, through the flurry of other seventh years finding their desks. Dorcas is saying something to me about ink, or else parchment, or else something about the original, ancient domestication of owls—I couldn’t say, entirely, because I’ve caught sight of James, settling down next to Remus across the room, pulling at his shirt collar, laughing at something Peter has said, behind them.

“Oi, Lils,” from my left. I do not look away. “Are you paying attention to me, at all, even just a little?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

“I agree, they shouldn’t _have_ to deliver letters, if they don’t want to.”

From across the room—James has looked over, caught my eye, smiled brilliantly in my direction.

“You look _very_ dumb right now, I assure you,” Dorcas is whispering in my ear, and I’m slapping her arm, and Flitwick is tottering into the room, calling the class to attention. And I’m not blushing at all—not even a little.

***

_James_

“Okay, what do we reckon: Friday night, Saturday night? Lads?”

“I’ve no input,” I mumble, not paying attention in the slightest.

“Can we take into account the personal health and safety of a certain group member who transforms, beyond his will, each month, into a hideous, soulless beast?”

“ _Soulless_ ,” Sirius _tsks_ with his tongue, voice quite quiet. “I don’t like the sound of that descriptor in the same sentence with you, honest.”

Though I am rather no-holds-barred concentrated on my so-close-to-being-finished Divination chart, I spare a quick glance across the table, finding Remus bashfully avoiding the rather severe stare of Sirius—who is, as usual, a mess of inky hair in a disheveled uniform.

Pete, for his part, is sheltered from any serious stares or future-predicting chartwork, being rather preoccupied with a book on extinct magical creatures and a cache of rolls he smuggled from dinner.

“Okay, don’t look now, nobody look—” Sirius is suddenly yell-whispering, and I look up to find Lily approaching, ponytailed, bright-faced.

“Is this studying, going on?” Lily asks, glancing around at the four of us, then zeroing in on the parchment in front of me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, squinting a bit closer at my work. “ _Divination_. My mistake. It’s—guesswork? Going on, here?”

“ _Shit_ , Prongs, are you going to take that?” Sirius stares at Lily in reproach.

Remus ignores all of it. “Smashing thing you’re here, Lily—I’ve got a problem with some integers and sets, and you’ve likely already worked them all out—”

Lily’s glancing at me, briefly, and I’m staring at her, obviously—she’s saying, to Remus, “I’ll pull up a chair?”

“Please,” Remus nods.

“Okay, but what’s the password?”

I glare, empathically, in Sirius’ direction. Lily isn’t around to hear, she’s politely asking a group of Slytherins if she can borrow an unused chair from their table (only non-Slytherin I know that would approach a Slytherin politely), and hobbling back to our table, said chair in hand.

Pete has roused from his focused reading-and-eating, addressing Lily, now, situated between Remus and me at the end of the table. “Evans? Studying with us, now?”

“Quite alright with you, Peter?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Ever heard of walrus’ breeding with possums? Apparently, in the 18th century, wizards in the Nordic regions were _deadly_ keen on mating—”

“Pete, mate, can we save trivia hour?” Remus interrupts. “Arithmancy waits for no one.”

Lily is pulling study materials out of her bag. My chart— _so_ close to its finality—will just have to wait. I’m not strong enough not to just bask in her presence, here, next to me. She finds my eyes, and smiles, small. “So, you’re just not speaking to me, again, is that it? After what happened in Potions, today?”

I am, on principle, grinning foolishly. “I’m sorry, but you can’t expect me to respond to such absolutely vile behavior.”

“You—” she bites that in, then restarts. “When one forgets a _single_ ingredient, that’s not _vile_ behavior, that’s just—” she’s indignant. “That’s—it happens.”

“Happens to normal Potions students, sure,” I mumble, making sure it really seems like my full attention has been returned to my chart. “Not usually highly competent Potions _assistants_.”

“You’re paying me a compliment,” she begins, her elbow quite close to mine, her voice not far from it. “But in a sort of, _negative_ way, not sure what you’re hoping to accomplish there—”

Sirius, apparently, is fed up with this. “Hey,” he says, and I look over, and Lily looks over. “Are—are you lot—” he finds my eyes, and I try, desperately, to communicate something that’s rather impossible to communicate via eye-contact. “Forget it.”

Remus butts in—“Well, Lily?”

“Sorry,” she shakes her head, focusing in on the Arithmancy in front of them. Her head tilts in his direction.

Sirius is giving me a _what the fuck, man_ sort of look—which I ignore, and return to my chart. It’s quite almost done.

***

_Lily_

November progresses. The Situation between James and I becomes Friendship with a Steady Undercurrent of _This is Definitely Different Than Traditional Friendship._

Following the Potions-room incident and our earnest conversation, James moved fully into his half of the Heads quarters. This means: Me, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of James, one room away, doing the same. This means: Suddenly we’re doing a lot of walking from this place to that place with one another, by virtue of coming and going from the same place—and I am very serious in my desire not to take time spent together for granted.

I practice gratitude for what I’m given.

And though things are confusing, a bit tentative, overall unclear—we’re not dating, certainly, but we’re not just friends, exactly—I swallow down the anxiety that this lack of definition would normally give me: I wasted enough time with those insecurities, and remember, all too well, where they got me.

So: I favor the moment over any fear of the future, and I begin to appreciate, finally, the once-radical idea that James and I are just—good together.

One area I didn’t expect to find this new contentment: Academia.

Classes are suddenly much improved. The blissful challenge and gratification of schoolwork returns to me—I’m finally able to recapture the level of academic immersion I so crave. Seventh year coursework is complicated and rigorous, engrossing, all-consuming. The ever-present stress of maintaining a high level of success, of course, remains—but this time, there’s a new dimension, some new dynamic emerging between James and me.

His intellect challenges me in ways I never noticed, before, and in ways I didn’t anticipate—and is tempered, in kind, by a certain amount of... _academic flirtation_. A learning-specific tension, arising, lingering, precipitating. A toed line between _I swear to Merlin I will best you in this subject_ and _I think_ _it’s kind of hot how badly you want to best me in this subject_.

And then, of course, there’s the one endlessly aggravating area in which I’ve never quite managed to beat him: Defense Against the Dark Arts.

I absolutely pale in comparison to James’ hunger, knowledge, and aptitude for the class—in fact, all of the Marauders manage to excel tremendously at the subject, to my constant and eternal frustration. I struggle massively with advanced defensive charms, like counter-hexes and anti-jinxes, which, unluckily, are a heavy focus in seventh year curriculum.

Take the second week of November:

Professor Glass is explaining to a grumbly collection of teenagers who would rather be asleep that the day’s lesson will consist of a quick demonstration followed by partnered practice sessions—to my immediate chagrin. “Mr. Potter, will you assist?”

James, sitting next to Remus a desk over from Marlene and I, nods, eagerly, and joins our Professor at the front of the classroom.

“Today we’ll focus on our nonverbal anti-jinxes, so that we may eventually reach the nonverbal level with jinx-giving, as well. We’ll begin with basic Knockback and Impediment jinxes,” Professor Glass elucidates, moving about her desk to face James. Her robes are an ecstatic shade of buttercup yellow today, grey hair drawn back in a silver clasp. She pulls her wand elegantly from a sleeve, and nods at James. “I’ll begin with Knockback, Mr. Potter, and I want you to attempt to repel its effects nonverbally.”

James nods, wand raised, temple screwing with focus. With a slight wrist flick, Professor Glass intones, “ _Flipendo_!” and the class leans forward in anticipation as James’ fingers tense around his wand, and his arm wavers, just slightly, and he bites his lip in concentration.

After a moment, seeing that he was not shoved backward with the purported impact of the jinx, Professor Glass nods in appreciation. “Very well done, Mr. Potter—I’ll attempt an Impediment Jinx, now, as well,” she says. This time, her forearm tilts with a bit more of a flourish as she calls out, swiftly, “ _Impedimenta_!” James’ entire body tenses visibly—but, still, he manages a successful nonverbal anti-jinx, and remains unaffected.

“Oh, very good, class, he’s done it,” Professor Glass is smiling widely now, relaxing from her casting posture. There’s light applause from the class, and James drops his wand, smiling slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Potter, wonderful demonstration, positively perfect posture, very well done.”

She’s beaming at him—her star student, after all. I resist the urge to roll my eyes—knowing, in utter annoyance, that I certainly would not have performed so well, especially with the whole class watching. “Now,” she says, turning back to the class. “I want you all to divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other with verbal casting, and the other will attempt to repel the jinx in silence. Let’s stick, for now, to those two jinxes, and in a bit, if I’m satisfied with progress, we’ll advance to something a bit stickier, yes? Carry on, now.”

“You know Ingrid is going to _kill_ me if I don’t pair with her, sorry, Lils,” Marlene is rushing out, barely finishing the sentence before she’s fled the desk to find her girlfriend.

“Well then,” I grumble to myself, turning to hope that Dorcas isn’t so disloyal. Upon finding her already quite paired off with Doyle—actually, she’s just gazing up at him, adoringly, stroking back a piece of his white-blonde hair—I realize that all of my options have been exhausted, unless, of course—“I’m sure you’ve been rather intimidated by that performance, just now, but I _swear_ I’ll go easy on you.”

James has done me the courtesy of crossing the room to stand next to my desk just to smile at me, stupidly. “Remus has kindly ditched me for Peter,” he explains, tilting his head toward the pair—and just in time for Peter to completely succumb to a Knockback, flying backward into a desk chair.

“Where’s Black?”

“Indisposed.”

“I am not _intimidated_ ,” I mumble, rising from the desk and snatching up my wand, having really have no choice in the matter, I’m partner-less otherwise. I shoulder past James, slogging through quickly mounting reverberations of _Flipendo_ and _Impedimenta_ to find a space in the back of the classroom clear of other partnerships.

James follows, amused—I can’t unset my jaw, I’m pre-annoyed, for no real or good reason. “Alright, let’s have it,” I sigh, raising my wand, bracing myself for impact.

James hesitates.

“Go on, Potter, we haven’t got all day for me to be thrown back against the wall.”

An eyebrow, arching, just slightly, just enough for me realize it wouldn’t be the first time he’d thrown me against a wall—just, under rather different circumstances.

I swallow down this memory very very very quickly. _Incorrect moment for that, Lily Evans._

“If you do the anti-jinx correctly, you won’t have to worry about that, you know,” he explains, as if he’s revealing some enormous truth, some incredible new piece of information.

I roll my eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks very much.” I decide to focus all my unintentional rage into performing the anti-jinx, and wiping that smug smile—that ridiculous, arched brow—off his face.

James assumes his stance, chucks a “ _Flipendo”_ in my direction—I concentrate all my attentions on intoning the anti-jinx incantation in my head— _o_ _bstructionum_ _flipendo_ —and feel only the slightest tingle of the jinx’s effects, feet sliding just vaguely backward where they stand.

James shakes out his wand-hand. “You really almost got that, Lils.”

“Do you think she’ll let us do killing jinxes next? Because I want to kill you.”

He’s shaking his head, laughing, “What’s all the rage, all of a sudden? You’re gonna burst that vein in your neck, there, if you’re not careful.”

I touch my neck, self-consciously, finding it, indeed, taut. “You—” I huff. “You know I don’t like being bested—and by you, of all people.”

“Bested?” he rolls his eyes. “I’m hardly accomplishing something groundbreaking, here, it’s just anti-jinxes.”

From across the room, Maggie Prewett is flung into a desk with such great impact that Professor Glass rushes over, spell-caster Alan Duncan going purple in the face.

“Again,” I demand, shrugging off my outer robe and rolling up my shirtsleeves a bit. I hold my wand between my teeth, briefly, pulling my hair back into a ponytail and securing it. I retrieve my wand, raise it, find his eyes. He looks a bit winded, like he’s been running circles. “What?”

“You’re trying to distract me, huh?”

“ _Distract_ you?”

He waves his non-wand hair in my direction. “The—this whole—your hair.”

I roll my eyes. “James, I’m sorry if you find my _ponytail_ so enticing, but it’s rather for my own comfort, not a distraction tactic.”

He releases an impatient breath. “If you say so.”

“Try Impediment, now,” I say, steeling myself.

He’s flicked a “ _Impedimenta_ ” so quickly I’ve barely had time to think _o_ _bstructionum_ _impedimenta,_ but manage to block the jinx entirely, a smile spreading over me. “Okay, do Knockback, again.”

“ _Flipendo_!” and I’ve blocked it entirely, no tingle at all, no movement.

“Well, see, there you go,” James says.

“Try another—try a Revulsion jinx.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sure?”

“Yes!”

James intones “ _Relashio_ ,” I concentrate very intently on _o_ _bstructionum_ _relashio_ , and my grip remains strong on my wand.

“Surely I’m proud to see Heads moving forward so quickly,” Professor Glass is suddenly next to James and me, nodding encouragingly. “Do try a Tongue-Twisting jinx, Mr. Potter.”

I re-tighten my ponytail, challenge James with my own arched eyebrow. He’s biting his lip in concentration, saying “ _Langlock”_ firmly—my tongue, thankfully, remains un-stuck from the roof of my mouth, courtesy of a strong and steadfast _o_ _bstructionum_ _langlock._

Professor Glass leans forward in anticipation. “Miss Evans?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Oh!” She claps her hands together, delighted. “Very well done. Alright, proceed, proceed,” she’s waving her hands at us chaotically, beaming as she walks away. “I see I’m not needed here.”

James is shaking his head at me. “You happy, now, that she’s given you the praise, and not me?”

I scoff. “Do you think that’s all I care about?”

“Possibly.”

“I care about plenty of things.”

“Name one other thing.”

I meet his defiant stare—though there’s a glitter in his eye, and now that my competitive itch has been scratched, I can hardly ignore the satisfaction of being allowed to _flirt with him in Defense Against the Dark Arts class_. “I care, very deeply, for Diana.”

Biting down a smile. “Lucky owl.”

It’s strange how little time it took for the conversation to dissolve into this—us, just slooking, a sudden lack of interest for perpetuating the banter, the outside veil of mock opposition—because, really, underneath it all is what’s been there, what’s always there: a magnetic force, tugging, drawing us together.

I rub my lips together and ask, “what?”

Cocks his head, slightly. “What?”

“What?”

“No, really, _what_?”

“James.”

“Lily!”

But then Professor Glass is clapping loudly at the front of the classroom, and beginning to explain the next portion of the exercise. I turn to listen while readjusting my ponytail—this time, of course, expressly for his benefit.

***

_James_

“Oh, and my dad—he went here, too, but pretty much _ages_ , ago—and, anyway, he thinks if I practice wicked hard this summer, I can go for tryouts next year, d’you reckon I could make the team, James, if I really, _really_ wanted it?” The boy is nearly suffocating himself, with the pitiful amount of breath he’s taking in between thoughts.

“Alexander, I think you can do anything you set your mind to,” I reassure the carrot-haired first year, who barely reaches my shoulder in height. His enthusiasm has not waned since our Charms tutoring session began, over an hour ago. It’s an energy rather unfit for the moody library atmosphere. “So I say go for it. Practice wicked hard. What position are you keen on, anyway?”

“Chaser, no doubt, though Dad thinks I might have the speed for Seeker, but I can hardly find my socks in the drawer, let alone a Snitch on the field.”

I bark a laugh, have to cover it up. “Smashing, kid.”

We’ve reached the table where I left all my things—and there’s Lily, allegedly having finished all her own work, reading a book, it appears, solely for leisure. She looks up as we approach, smiles at the two of us.

Alexander is asking, “So Head Boy and Head Girl are, what, required to be together, at all times? In case there’s some major type of accident, like some does a really _really_ awful hex, and there’s no hex reversal incantation, and the Ministry has to bring in special Healers?”

“Yes!” I turn to him in amazement, grinning wide. “Yes, that’s exactly it, how’d you know that? You read the Heads manual, too?”

He’s flicking his gaze to Lily, now, who is trying, heroically, to hold in laughter. “No, no way, I’m on it?”

I laugh. “Never lose that imagination, Alexander,” I say, ruffling his hair gently. “And keep practicing those Levitation Charm, alright? You’ll get there.”

With a lingering look of total confusion, he’s off with his bright orange hair, scampering from sight.

I turn back toward Lily, who’s still got a sparkle in her eye. “You’re done?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “You?”

“You wouldn’t believe how easy Arithmancy is to accomplish when there’s no sort of braggy miscreant hanging about asking you every other minute the difference between fluxweed and knotgrass,” she explains, shoving her book into her shoulder bag and standing up from the table.

“I’m neither braggy nor a miscreant,” I defend. “And it’s not my fault their desperately similar in appearance _and_ use.”

We leave the library and begin the trek to the fourth floor. I take the long way, through the arched cloisters round the classroom wing, because walking with her is a favorite activity, and I like, particularly, the way she walks so close to me that our shoulders nearly touch. She’s got some sort of secret smile on her face, now, so I ask, “What?”

She glances over. “You’re so sweet with him.”

“Alexander?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s had a tough go of it, I think, making friends so far. And doesn’t sound like at-home life I very good, either, Mom and Dad are separating, and it’s a rather messy affair, from the sound of it.”

“Well, I’m sure the attentions of the Head Boy, who happens, also, to be Quidditch Captain, really makes his day.” She shrugs. “It’s part of your nature, I think, to be kind to people who need it most.” A pause. “It’s one of the things I like best about you.”

I hope she’s not looking, seeing the red stains my cheeks. “What’s this—a compliment?”

She laughs, gently, nudges my shoulder with hers. “If you’re not pleased with it, I can take it back, give you another.”

“Alright, let’s have it.”

She considers for a second. “Okay, let’s see...well, yes, excellent performance at Sunday’s match.”

“I really struggle, rather intensely, with the concept of you watching me play Quidditch,” I admit, smiling. “I fear I look like a bit of a weird oaf, horizontal on a broom.”

“No,” she’s shaking her head, insistently, looking over at me. “You look—you look—well, regardless, you don’t look like a weird oaf.”

“Wait,” Grinning idiotically. “How do I look, then, really?”

We’ve arrived in front of the straight-backed lady, who is already glaring at me. Lily smiles warmly at her, says, “Mimbulus mimbletonia,” and the portrait swings open. Lily strides in ahead of me, clearly eager to avoid my question. She sets down her bag on the table and shrugs out of her outer robes.

I drop my own bag onto the couch, lean down against it. Raise my eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

What I’m not prepared for: The turning toward me, the reaching out, the fingers combing, briefly, through my untidy hair. A thumb pausing high on my jaw. Quietly, “You look really rather handsome, I’m sure you know that.” And then, thumb falling away, and she’s left me, dumb, in the common room—footsteps thumping up the stairs to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

And I see the seat next to yours is unoccupied  
And I was wondering if you'd let me come and sit by your side.  
I've got plenty of affection.  
I'd be glad to show you sometime.

—Lucy Dacus, “Green Eyes, Red Face”

* * *

_Lily_

Maybe I wear the sweater because its warm, and the common room isn’t safe from the November chill, despite the fire—maybe I wear nothing but a chemise underneath the sweater because I’m well aware of the pleasant dip, just beneath my collarbones, revealing the faintest swells beneath—maybe I know that it’s Saturday night and there are probably parties to be had, or fifth-years to be caught sneaking off the grounds—maybe I’d much prefer, in any case, to be sitting against the couch, sprawled on the maroon carpet in front of the fire, watching James mutter _frigare flamma_ over and over, wand pointed into the flames, to no avail. Maybe I realize I’ve tamed my hair into the softest curls imaginable, on purpose.

Maybe I’m staring. Maybe I’m besotted. To no avail.

Balanced on one knee, a list of notes for my Potions term paper on the uses and ethics of Amortentia; on the other, _Radical Potions Theory: 13 th Century and Beyond _by Tallulah Rhoders O'Doherty. On the ground, in front of me, a map, of sorts, for the essay—possible directions to take. It’s all well and good—and I’m a bit thrilled some of the discourse I’ve already managed to parse out of the material—but it’s hard to concentrate, really quite hard, because—

“Hey.”

James looks up at me. His sweater is black and consumes his body like a shadow. “Hey.”

“Ever consider trying ‘ _frigore_ ’ rather than ‘ _frigare,’_ in that first part, there?”

Furrow, just there, in the crease between brows. “ _Frigare flamma._ ” Immediately: the manufactured sensation of a warm summer breeze blows out from the flames. He looks back to me. Foolish grin. “Smart girl.”

I shake my head, duck back into notes and book and trains of thought. Never mind the flash of heat—the charm’s worn off, and now there’s just a fire, doing its job. _No, don’t look up, Lily, that’s not in your best interest, certainly, just don’t_ —

Looking up. Can hardly discern his expression. He nods at my mess of materials. “What’s your essay on?”

“Amortentia.”

“Mmm.”

“Fascinating history surrounding its origin.”

“Difficult potion to brew.”

“Well—with that attitude, sure."

Glinting smile. “Gonna use it on someone?”

“Yeah.” Pause for effect. “Alan Duncan.”

Shot of laughter. James stretches his arms over his head, resituates, back against the couch.

A crackle, like a paper crinkling, between. I shift, body angling toward him.

“I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”

Closeness is subjective. Distance is just space. I let my hand fall down onto the ground, between us, palm-up, reaching.

He accepts the offering; entwines our fingers.

I carry on with the research; this essay needs a cartographer.

***

_James_

“Do you think this is a bad idea?”

I look over at Lily. She’s tugging the tie of her tan-colored wool coat tighter about her waist, flooded in an apprehensive look. Her hair spills over her shoulders in loose waves, a scarlet sea, tied halfway up with a black ribbon. She looks so lovely that I almost forget the question.

“No—definitely not.”

She bites her lip.

“Do _you_ think it’s a bad idea?” I ask.

We’ve rounded the corner to find the tall oak doors that open onto the east courtyard. It’s Saturday, the first weekend in December, and we’re not alone in the corridors—it seems at least half the eligible students at Hogwarts are heading excitedly toward an afternoon in Hogsmeade, looking forward to anything that will distract from the next few weeks leading up to pre-break examinations. The doors are pushed open for us by a Ravenclaw, who Lily smiles at and thanks as we emerge into the courtyard, already flooded in groups of dawdling students.

“It’s just—” she starts, swiveling her head, looking for our friends. “I’m not sure how well, or how often, these two groups have...interacted with one another.”

I smile to myself, just a little, careful not to let her see. I know what’s running underneath her words, the concern beneath the surface-concern: She’s thinking that it’s a bit strange we arranged an outing to Hogsmeade that merges her friend group with mine, as though we are, indeed, dating. The lack of clarity there doesn’t bother me at all, really, but I recognize her anxiety, and it’s valid. “I know it might feel a bit weird,” I reassure. “But—believe it or not—Sirius is actually rather good at bringing people together, in all sorts of weird circumstances.”

Speaking of Sirius, I’ve spotted him across the courtyard, waving over to us from the far corner—next to him are Peter and Remus, and next to them, in a nervous clump, Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, and Ingrid, decked out in all manner of fur-lined coats and woolen caps.

“That well may be,” Lily says, as we walk toward the group. “But if he asks me one more time if I’m pregnant with your child, I’m going to knee him, fairly hard, in the groin.”

I have to gulp down whatever tangled emotion this comment elicits because we’ve reached our friends, and Lily’s being swallowed up in the arms of Mary, and I notice Peter wearing a bright red scarf so thick that I fear he’s suffocating. “Can you breathe, Pete?” I ask, taking my hands out of my pockets, feeling the air. “It’s not _so_ cold, yet, it’s not even snowing.”

Peter pulls a bit of scarf back from his mouth. “Precautionary, Prongs. Definitely going to be a blizzard on the way back.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “He, and I quote, ‘feels it in his bones.’”

“Well, I _do_ ,” Peter mumbles, returning the scarf to its suffocating position.

“Say, what’s this dapper new coat?” Sirius is eyeing my herringbone peacoat with interest, smoothing his hands over the lapel and buttons. “Euphemia decks you in the lithest fits, James, she _never_ does the same for me, honestly.”

“Oi!”

This is Marlene, all but snapping her fingers in front of our faces. We turn toward her, attention effectively got. Her cold and incredulous look feels quite opposite the soft lavender coat she wears. I glance over at Lily, who’s all but got her forehead coddled in her hand.

“Are we going, or what?”

“Marlene,” Remus is smiling gently, as he’s want to do. His kind eyes temper Marlene’s attitude, immediately—I see her shoulders relax a bit. “You lead, we’ll follow.”

She takes a long look around at all of us, then turns—yellow curls whipping in a dramatic arc—takes Ingrid’s arm and ducks through the courtyard cloisters, leading us out onto the long downhill path to Hogsmeade. The rest fall in behind.

The sky is bright and cloudless. The path is only wide enough to accommodate two side-by-side walkers, and I end up at the rear of the party, with Remus.

“How’s it?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Fine, I guess. I miss your levelheadedness, in the dorm.”

I smile, laughing a bit. I don’t envy him having to juggle the differing levels of Sirius and Peter eccentricities all on his own. And beyond that, my time spent with the three of them has decreased of late, given our new geographical dislocation—and I miss them, I really do.

“And you, Head Boy?”

I glance ahead of us, instinctively, to find the back of Lily’s head. She’s walking with Dorcas, who’s making her laugh, loudly. “Good. All good, can’t complain.”

“You two aren’t dating in secret, are you?”

I glance sidelong at Remus, find a teasing smile. “Mm, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“What, are you and Sirius dating in secret?”

He concedes, short nod of the head. “Fair.”

“No, unfair of me, sorry,” I shake my head, tuck my hands into coat pockets. “I think maybe eventually she’ll want that, but it’s mostly—just holding hands once in a while.”

“Must be weird, considering your summer.”

“Fuck, mate, you’re telling me,” I laugh, pained, because he couldn’t be more correct. “Sometimes I have to physically stop myself from kissing her.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Remus says. “And I dunno if you’ve heard this, yet, from a third-party observer, but, she looks at you—I mean, Prongs, she looks at you like you’re the end-all, be-all.”

“You—” I clear my throat. “What, now?”

He rolls his eyes. “C’mon. Maybe you spend too much time looking _at_ her, not seeing how she looks at _you_.”

With all her good timing, Lily’s glancing back at me now. She stares, for a brief second, before smiling, in a quiet sort of way.

My insides do a collective, jittery gymnastics routine.

“Hey, snotgrass!”

Sirius has materialized in front of us. He points at me, beams a wide, _gotcha_ smile. “ _You_ looked at me first, which means you _knew_ you were the snotgrass in question.”

“You’re going to tumble down this hill walking backward like that, is that what you want?”

“Moony will catch me,” Sirius assures, swiveling his eyes on Remus, who now has touches of pink high on his cheeks—whether from the cold, or this idiot in front of us, I can’t tell. “You’ll catch me, right?”

“I’ll push you, sure.”

Sirius reaches out, fluffs his hand through Remus’ hair, and turns from us quickly, skipping back down to walk beside Peter.

I turn to Remus, eyebrows raised. His blush is deeper now, and he’s trying to fix his hair. “What?”

“All these lads at Hogwarts—and _that’s_ the one?”

“Fucking _hell_ , Prongs.”

***

The Three Broomsticks—as was to be predicted—is wall-to-wall in Hogwarts students, a verifiable sea of inter-house camaraderie—to, I’m sure, to the immense chagrin of the establishment. The locals, it seems, have stayed far away, in anticipation of the irritating influx of sixth and seventh years very interested in being unknowingly over-served.

By the grace of Ingrid being some sort of second cousin twice-removed with one of the bartends, a scraggly fellow named Dominic—who happens to know Sirius, Remus, Peter and I well, thanks to one or two unsanctioned visits to the village—the nine of us huddle into the best seats in the house: a circular booth in the far corner, lit by a multicolored glass half-orb overhead and sheltered, sort of, from the majority of the already-drunken din.

There’s a first round, then there’s another, then another.

Then there’s Mary, wedged between Peter and Ingrid, leaning across the table, palms first, staring very purposefully at Lily, who is wedged between Dorcas and me.

(Before, during, and after all trouble: some brushing of knuckles, beneath the table.)

“Don’t go mental, and _do not_ look over there.”

Lily looks, immediately. I follow her gaze across the room, to the bar, where I spot Martin Landes, in all his glory, with that dumb cajoling grin.

“Great, Mary, thanks,” Lily grips her butterbeer, nearly downing the thing in one gulp. “What am I supposed to do with that information, go hang out with him?”

“Yeah, I think you should go hang out with him,” I interject. “Better yet—invite him over!”

A swift kick to my leg, under the table. A half-smile slipped from the side.

Marlene and Sirius are getting on—rather too well—about the time they both received a mutual detention for nicking supplies from the greenhouses fourth year—an unplanned coincidence. Sirius was there for wolsfbane, Marlene was there for alihotsy (used to induce heinous, uncontrollable laughter: which, allegedly, she planned to use on an enemy, enemy undisclosed)—and the unlucky meeting led to an unlucky getting-caught by Professor Sprout, who kindly gifted them both a week of detention scrubbing the greenhouse floors—a task that, apparently, really brought them together all those years ago, and the current rehashing of which seems to necessitate a lot of loud laughter and _I’ll drink to that_ s and clinking bottles.

The rest of us embark upon a far less enjoyable discussion on the latest out of the Ministry about the dark rebellion at work in the outer reaches of the wizarding community—Mary’s father works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and says that although things have been uneasy for years, the uprising of Death Eaters and their deplorable leader is becoming more perilous by the day. Perhaps more importantly, the Ministry’s ability to prevent attacks, curb attempted attacks, and clean up after successful attacks becomes more and more hindered by the slimy stain of corruption within a government that's supposed to protect from such things. Support for the movement continues to grow, and as the underground network of dark wizards escalates, as does the greed and reach for positions of high power.

I can tell the conversation makes Lily uncomfortable. Though no one present is unaware of her justifiable sensitivity to discussions of dark magic, or movements involving dark magic, I think they’ve forgotten, momentarily, caught up in the need to discuss, and dissect, and speculate.

But I watch the furrow in her brow deepen with every mention of Muggle-borns and blood traitors targeted, hunted, tortured, killed—and I know she’s thinking _that could be me_.

A thought I don’t even give myself the chance to think.

And so, when there’s finally a lull in the somber talk, I slam my hands down on the table, jovially declare the need for a change in conversation, as well as another round of drinks—and the burden of getting said drinks, as should follow, unanimously falls to me. As I rise from the table, I see Lily’s grateful eyes, see her mouthing _thank you_.

“Hold up, Potter—I’ll help carry.” Dorcas is squeezing past Lily in the booth, scurrying after me.

We swim through the masses to get to the bar, where Dorcas greets Dominic, asks for nine butterbeers. The bartender glances briefly at me, uneasy. I smile, awkwardly, wave. He turns to retrieve the drinks.

Dorcas turns her sharp blue eyes on mine. “Listen—I want to, er, apologize.”

This I was not expecting. “For what?”

She runs her fingers through her short black hair. “Well, you and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. I mean, Quidditch-wise, and...er, all the intimidation tactics, and whatnot.”

A small smile on my end. “You couldn’t mean all the times you threatened to duel me, third through sixth year, could you?”

She rolls her eyes. Dominic is lining up our irrational amount of butterbeers on the bar before us, still eyeing me suspiciously. I dig into my pocket for a couple sickles—throw in a few extra, for the sake of mending past wrongs. He counts the coins, un-narrows his eyes. Salutes me, sort of. I nod back, unsure if we are now allies, or simply strangers participating in the local economy.

“Yes, obviously that’s what I’m referring to,” Dorcas says, snagging a butterbeer for herself. “But—what I mean to say, is, that I jumped to a couple of conclusions, about you—and it was mostly for Lily’s sake, I didn’t want her getting hurt.” She takes a long drink. “And I just wanted to say, you know, I’m sorry I judged you so harshly, and I think you’ve actually turned out to be an okay bloke, and a pretty good Captain—and,” she shrugs. “Lily seems to—well, I trust her opinion. So I’m sorry, okay?”

I exhale. Take hold of my own drink. “No apology necessary, really, I’m sure—no, I _know_ I contributed my own sort of dazzlingly inept charms in all the wrong ways, in the past, to you, and so the treatment was warranted. But—thanks, Dorcas.”

She smiles, clinks her bottle to mine. We both drink for a second. “It’s not like I’ve really got a choice in the matter, anyway, because that annoying bird with the red hair—oh, shit, Lily, oh _hi!_ ”

It is, in fact, Lily, emerging from the thickening crowd near the bar, smiling oddly at the two of us. “What’s happened? Gotten lost back here?”

“James forgot how to count change, actually, took him five whole minutes to pay,” Dorcas explains, crinkling her nose over at me. Then she grabs as many bottles as she can carry in her hands, and levitates the rest to float behind her as she pushes past us and heads back to the booth.

Lily settles into the space Dorcas left. “And what were you two talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just Quidditch formations,” I shrug innocently. “Chaser here, Beater there—that sort of thing.”

“An absolute lie, but fine. Keep your secrets.” She reaches for the butterbeer Dorcas was kind enough to leave her—meets my eyes over its long amber neck. 

“Oi, is this—” a voice is practically crashing into me, and so is a body, and I hurtle a bit forward, into Lily, who gasps impulsively, palm flying to my chest to steady me.

The crashing body whips around, saying, “My god, I’m so sorry, I’m really—”

And of course, it’s Angelica Fletcher, fifth-year girlfriend—signature strawberry-blonde double-braids and all. She smiles at me awkwardly, now, then at Lily, who’s palm is still fully holding me in place. “Well, well, well,” she says, sparkly-eyed. “Head Boy and Head Girl.”

Lily notices the precarious position, removes her hand, avoids my eyes, and turns a polite smile on my ex-girlfriend. “Er, hi, Angelica, how are you?”

“Doing alright, though you—you two are rather blocking the bar, you know that, right?”

“Shit, sorry,” Lily rushes out, shifting forward, grabbing my arm to move us away from the bar and into the general mess beyond—again, quite in a dangerous realm of being _all but pressed right against my body_.

Angelica is looking back at me with an odd combination of reproach and amusement. “Lovely to see you, James.”

“And—” I have to clear my throat; I have such massive discomfort glomming tongue and mouth. “And you, Angelica.”

With a final eyebrows-raised glance at Lily and me, Angelica slides past us, to the bar.

Lily releases my arm. “Sorry for all the—touching.”

“Will be ignoring that needless apology.” _Because you well know I like it, Evans._

She laughs, weirdly, nervously, glancing over toward the bar, the back of Angelica’s head. “How long did you two date, anyway?”

I strain to remember—it’s hard to conceptualize a time when I thought my feelings could stretch beyond the girl in front of me. “Er, two, three months? Hardly remember it, if I’m being honest.”

“Forget all your escapades that easily?”

“Will be ignoring that question, as well.”

Lily rolls her eyes, takes a swig of drink—which she looks, at confusedly, after a second. “Is it appropriate for me to be downing, say, _multiple_ alcoholic drinks around all these people I’m technically in charge of?”

“Is that how you think of being a Head? That you’re _technically in charge of_ all these idiots?” I gesture to the throng surrounding us, the raucous discussions and rows, the full-on intoxicated snogging, the firewhiskey-shot-downing competitions.

Knit eyebrows. “Aren’t I?”

“Aren’t _we_ , yeah?” I raise my eyebrows.

She brushes her hair back over her shoulders, as if trying to pummel my heart right out of my chest. “Yes, sure, we, us.”

“Don’t sound super convinced about that—do you think you’re in charge of _me_ , in the Head-superiority schematic?”

This lip-biting here ought to be outlawed. As should the head tilting to one side. “Am I not?”

Rapidly growing difficult to maintain complete composure here, in the middle of this crowd.

And then there’s a sudden panic in Lily’s eyes, and she’s got her hands on me once again—which isn’t at all helpful for the composure-maintaining bit—shifting me to the side, fingers on my waist, nervous eyes hard on mine. “Do _not_ move.”

I grin. “Why, who’s back there?”

She shakes her head, removes her hand. “Dunno why every person either of us ever dated is, like, _stalking_ this place.”

“Oh, is it Landes?”

“Bloody hell, not you, too?” A furious head-shaking. “I didn’t _date_ him—I’ve barely ever _talked_ to him!”

“That’s interesting, because I recall a certain Prefect meeting when—”

“Oh, Christ, don’t you _dare_ move, I swear to Merlin, James Potter, just keep talking, like we’re having this thrilling, engaging dialogue—”

I am thrilled, in fact, because she’s pushed herself right up against me, again, eyes steadfast on mine, desperate to avoid being spotted by whoever is behind us. “It’s not, Snape, is it?”

“For _chrissakes_ —” a green sort of fire in her irises, now. “I never _dated_ him—”

“Wait, wait—it's Duncan, yeah?”

This earns me a hard pinch on the upper arm, which has what I assume to be the opposite of its intended effect.

We’re jostled a bit, in the crowd, as someone passes by, and I lock onto the figure: Wavy golden hair, broad shoulders. Owen Flannigan. Infamously shit Quidditch player.

“Ah,” I smirk. “ _That’s_ the chap.”

Lily’s still got her eyes steadfast on mine, panic like a swollen sheen over her face, eyebrows taut with anxiety. “I’ve managed to avoid him all year, I’m really not keen on a catch-up chat, right now.”

“Must’ve have _really_ been a shit boyfriend.”

“You’ve no idea. Is he gone?”

I glance over her shoulder, and he has, indeed, disappeared. “No, he’s right behind you, staring at the back of your head.”

Eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

“No, I’m James, you just said it yourself.”

“Fucking—really, c’mon, is he gone?”

“Yeah,” I say, though I’m uneager to leave this little bubble, this closeness, this hiding in plain sight. I want, more than anything, to dip my head down, just slightly, kiss her, gently, and for a while. If I’m reading her eyes correctly—the annoyance dimming, replaced by another, different light—she would let me—might even kiss me back.

But the spell is broken by a cheer erupting from a table behind us, some drinking game won, and we both start, and she steps back from me, flustered. “Should probably get back to the table.”

“Alright, but Marlene is just going to bully me when I get there.”

She is already walking away, throwing over her shoulder: “Can’t say you don’t deserve it.”

***

_Lily_

I part with my friends at the forked tongue of a third-floor corridor. Before prancing off toward Gryffindor tower, Mary leans in against my ear and says, “No one else will tell you, but there’s a running pool of which month next year you two will be engaged.

“ _Mary_ —”

Mary smiles and laughs, backs away. “My money’s on October.”

I gape at her, open-mouthed, as she follows after the others, who wave back at me, calling out their goodbyes. _Stupid nosy idiots._

James breaks from his own friends, who have just made it to the split hallway. “Hey, so, I’m actually going in that direction.” He points a thumb back toward the retreating Marauders.

My heart tips over, just a little. I’d been looking forward to real alone time with him, after a long day of having to answer Peter’s questions of red being my natural hair color, or not.

Perhaps he senses this disappointment, because he immediately adds, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve promised Sirius a sleepover, and if I went back on that—he might—well, I’m not yet sure what his reaction to such disloyalty would be.”

It’s impossible to be disappointed further when he’s giving me this bashful smile, hands stuck in his pockets, the dim glow of a floating candle flickering off his glasses. I can hardly see the eyes behind.

“Last thing you want to do is cross Sirius Black,” I say, quiet, smiling.

No way to avoid the lingering. Only way to avoid the lingering would be to not linger; which feels, somehow, out of the question.

“Um,” James clears his throat. He’s staring down at my boots. “You look really nice today.”

As if I didn’t choose this black turtleneck-plaid miniskirt-sheer black tights combo for the way they form to me so well. “Thanks.” I am pulled in one direction: Two steps forward, till we’re eye-to-eye. He looks up at me.

I recognize the moment, because I’ve been in it before— _we’ve_ been in it before. Not just earlier in the day—months ago, in his parent’s sitting room, teetering, drunk, hopeless—afflicted with something like love.

And just like that night, I can almost feel the kiss—all its phantom sensations. And here we are again, standing still, waiting for someone backstage to call out the forgotten lines, to tell us what comes next.

But this is not a play—we are not actors—there is no script. There is just the moment, passing, as it was doomed to. I lean in, compact all my residual longing into a gentle kiss on the cheek, lingering there only long enough to hear his sharp intake of breath.

“Night.”

He looks pained as I step away. I do not look back.

***

_James_

“Wait—are you moping? What’s going on? Why are you moping?”

I frisk my hands through my hair, pull off my sweater and hunker down onto the side my old bed to change shoes. I ignore Sirius—look, instead, at Remus. “I love you, Moony, and I’m here for you, and I’m really, _honestly_ , always happy to help, but—” a gargantuan, dramatic, immature sigh. “I did just sacrifice a kiss from the love of my life for this.”

Sirius throws up his arms in totally unwarranted melodrama.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't have a choice, but I'd still choose you.

—The Civil Wars, “Poison and Wine”

* * *

_Lily_

Sleep is hopeless. There’s a maddening unresolved feeling caught in my chest, like a half-finished chord. I toss, turn, lay still, stare up at the ceiling. Try not to wish for him. It’s no help that the moon is full, shining into my room brightly, in spite of the curtains.

Night turns to early morning. I give up the fight: Turn on a light, crack open the latest in my self-imposed Muggle reading list, _The Shining_. If I’m not going to sleep—might as well be scared.

I’m barely twenty pages in there’s a sudden crash from below—a muffled cry—scuffling.

I jump immediately to the _a Slytherin has broken in to kill me_ conclusion, leaping from bed, scrambling for my wand—taking only a second to fulfill an ill-timed desire for modesty and yank a robe over my camisole and underwear—then opening my door painstakingly slow, creeping quietly into the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen. From the common room, stifled muttering—“ _Bloody fucking hell, couldn’tve bumped into something soft, like the couch, could you have?_ ” and am immediately relieved, and then confused, because it’s just James, and he’s supposed to be at a sodding sleepover.

I light my wand with a quick _lumos_ and shuffle down the stairs. “James?”

“Oh, _fuck_ , Evans, don’t—”

He’s illuminated by the light from my wand before he can finish the sentence—and my heart stutters where it stands. Down the left side of his face: a horrid, jagged cut, pooled in the stain of its own dry blood. “What—what’s happened? What’s on—”

“—listen, I’m fine, it’s fine, okay? I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry, this table’s just in rather a bad spot for those of us trying to navigate in the dark and all—”

“—don’t know what you’re on about, but would you sit down? Let me help you with that? It looks—James, it looks awful, you’re—I can manage, it’s just a simple— _fuck_ , will you sit down, on the couch, will you just—?”

James begrudgingly allows me to lead him to the couch, where he sits—exhaling exasperatedly. I send flames into the fireplace with a simple _incendio_ , and when I turn, find James lit by firelight, I see he’s wearing not the sweater from earlier in the day but just a t-shirt, now—and it’s a right mess, too, splattered in flecks of blood and a darker substance, maybe mud or dirt.

He will not meet my eyes.

I pull my robe tight around my body and sit down next to him, on the edge of the couch—use a gentle finger to tilt his face toward me, to take a closer look at the wound. He grimaces. The cut stretches from the corner of his eye to the middle of his cheek in a thin, ragged gash—as if he’d been caught in the claw of an animal.

My whole body awash in anxiety. Without a word, I bring my wand to his face. He closes his eyes while I murmur “ _inconsideratus vulnere_ ” and winces slightly at the shot of green sparks from my wand settling over the gash, hovering, dissolving. Next comes the quiet, firm “ _episkey_ ,” which sees the gash swallowed up in new, healthy skin; disappeared entirely not a moment later.

James opens his eyes. Touches a finger his cheek, finds himself healed—finds my eyes, just for a second— _what is this apology? What does he have to be sorry for_?

I put my wand down. “What’s happened?”

He looks at me, helpless.

“Was it Snape?”

“No,” he says, quickly. “No, it wasn’t Snape.” He sighs, again, wearily, and I see now, clearly, the intensity of his exhaustion, like he’s put his full strength and energy into a hard and thankless task, for the entirety of the night. There is a long pause. I blink slowly. Try not to hold my breath.

Then James reaches out, hesitantly, takes my hand. “If I say that I can’t tell you where I was, or how this happened, because it’s not my place to tell another’s secret—would you—would you accept that?”

I see the war of emotion he’s now fighting. Tension gathered at the bridge of his nose; pulsing in his neck; this strange, urgent grip of his fingers. Tired eyes.

Whatever he’s been through, he deserves rest. I don’t want him to hurt. I nod, slightly, stroke his thumb with mine. “Yes.” I’m settled very close to him. I can feel his whole leg, warm, along mine. “So long as you’re not hurt, or in trouble...I trust you.”

Relief passes over him visibly, like a wave. He exhales for a long second. He brings my hand to his lips, kisses it. The contact affects more intensely than I should; but I can’t help it. His closeness—my anxiety for his pain—the fire behind—the look of unsettling vulnerability on his face—the gentle stroke of his fingers—it’s too much. I shift my body, folding one leg inward so I can face him, sideways. “Do you want tea?”

“No.” His voice, barely a breath.

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

“No.”

I see it there, in his eyes—everything.

This precipice, here, has its own body; an individual weight. The only thing between us—this ledge. One long leap.

I lean forward—does he feel the rock crumbling, under my feet? His lips part: one long, slow breath. So close I feel the air on my cheeks. My fingers curl past his, along his wrist, forearm, tentative; thumb tracing a long blue vein, upward, along his arm, gripping.

His face crumples, vaguely; now his hand, reaching out to cradle my jaw, soft. A muscle in his neck, contracting. He looks to my lips, briefly, back to my eyes—and it’s like some invisible push, some small gust of air, because I’m pitched forward, off the edge, falling in blind faith—closing the gap between us, lips pressed together.

Breath rushes from his chest.

This is water-based suspension; how the body loses its own memory, then finds it again; it was always there, floating. This is how the fingers on the jaw and the fingers drawing up the back, and the hands that belong to you plant firmly on his chest—how they don’t belong to him, or you; they belong to the water. Submerged.

Even swimmers need air: I break the surface, find his eyes closed, and he’s still under. “James,” I breathe, because it’s his name, and I am in love with him, and there’s nothing else to be said, we’ve been flung off the edge, and there’s no difference, now, between his breath and mine.

Eyes crack open. Thumb traces my lips. He might as well be looking at me for the very first time, like that first morning, way back, the orange light, my tentative breach of faith. Those feelings linger, underneath: but now, there’s no fear, or uncertainty of what’s beyond—this is the _everything else_.

My hands slide up his arms, up his neck, into hair, pulling him back to the waves—the unruly ones, the deepwater ones.

The whiny breath belongs to me—the gasping moan, to him.

If there is relearning to do then it’s a good thing we’re quick studies: I shift, rise, fall, sink down, thighs over thighs, the closeness not new, but not lately; elastic, skin-pricking, soft and hard at once—and he’s smiling around my lips, escaping my impatient tongue, mouth slipping to my cheeks, then my jaw, then my neck—touching me not with reluctance but scrupulous devotion; the way his tongue glides my lower lip, the way he tangles fingers in my hair, the way he sighs against my mouth.

My hips remember his and they are friction starved. I push into him, ruthless, fingers tangling his shirt; my robe falls, useless, from my shoulders, what remains barely a breath between his body and mine—and he breaks from me, breathing hard, a question in his eyes. Do I want to stop? Do I want to keep going?

The question he should be asking: _Will I follow him to the end of the earth?_

He opens his mouth, to ask—but I cover his lips with a finger, shake my head. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want us to talk ourselves out of it. I just want—him. The feeling of him. The diving, the drowning, the bottom of the ocean.

_Can he understand?_

He can. He skims the robe off entirely. He helps me tug his shirt upward, and off. Is there supposed to be a moment of uncertainty—a pause, an acknowledgement of everything we missed? Every second we didn’t have this? I press my hands to his chest, slip them cautiously through fuzzy hair, warm stomach, the sensitive above-the-waist; his quick inhale. He shivers beneath my fingers. I’m swallowing back something warm in my throat; an ache, a lingering pain. A heat behind my eyes.

“Lils?” James takes my face in his fingers. My hands—sliding back up, up, collarbone skimming, his sweet neck, the contraction there, a swallow, as I touch the pulse, its swift song—and then all the lines of his face, his dear face; jaw, cheek, nose. Eyelids. I am tracing this so I don’t forget. Later, in my head, I want to redraw. Carry him with me.

He blinks, and I try to un-crinkle his brow—does he think I’m in pain? If I’m in pain, then it’s only for being so long without him. A small, escaping wetness—he dashes it away.

I kiss him soft, slow. I kiss him like I wish I had in that summer garden, rather than let him leave, wordless. I blink away tears; they misinform. “I missed you.”

And he laugh-sobs, like the hitch of a crashing wave—like the tiny ache in the chest when you look for something you know is lost, then find it, unexpectedly, where you last thought to look. He pulls me back to him, till there’s no question of this gravity, its invisible science—certain as the tug of hungry hearts.

***

_James_

Catharsis, like anything good, builds slowly.

From the quiet, crushed feeling of her touching my hand under a table, in the midst of a crowd—the lingering burn of a hallway, eyes on eyes, a moment, forsaken—the untidy work of saving a friend from himself—the pain of pain inflicted, not meant, but felt, and bled-through—the sadness, the frustration of unfair things that cannot be helped, or undone, just lived through—the returning, and the table, and the light, and the voice—and the fear, and the panic, and the truth, its uneven weight—the healing, swift, expert, her eyes afraid and helpless—and the desperation for understanding, which, given so simply, so purely, draws tightly on the neck of release, begging.

To be believed—to be kissed—to hold her. This catharsis is not halfway. It is homebound.

She is so warm and familiar. She will kill me, and it will be slow, but it will be worth it. _My god, will it be worth it._

Her mouth, gentle and urgent, and her thighs, devouring mine, unrelenting squeeze. Her yanking my hands to her hips, then gathering all her loose, wild hair back behind her shoulders, pulling my face, chin-first, to hers. I succumb to the dominant tongue, her authority unmitigated, craved—slip fingers beneath neglectful underwear to find the slick underneath; her throaty whine; the roll of her hips, jolting, felt aggressively in an already helpless hardness. Hard groan, to match. I bury my face in her chest, jostling at her thin shirt so my tongue can sweep and tug and kiss at gorgeous swells—thrilled by the scrape of fingernails down my back—and I would stay here, spend times, if it weren’t for the sound of her impatience—something I could never forget, no matter how long without—this breathy, “I need you,” finding my eyes, finding my mouth, one long, devastating kiss later, “Now.”

I lift her at the waist, turn to lay her on the couch—my lower half unclothed, rapidly. There is no time to waste—but then I turn, find her watching me, propped up on elbows, hair a messy crown, breasts heaving, long sweet legs tilted inward—and waste just one moment in my slow approach, to crawl over her, gentle. She frames my face in her hands; and I remember the grief of her leaving, like a hook through a fishlip—sharp bite, over soon. I bend, kiss her. “I missed you, too.”

She spreads her fingers through my hair, grips. This affection I feel in every inch.

My mouth leaves hers, travels down, down, adoringly; trailing chin, throat, chest, stomach, and I part her legs, find the fabric between; press my lips to it. She whimpers above. I look, find a clenching jaw, anxious brow. I return to the fabric, part it to the side, and run my tongue slowly up the length of her. Fingers tighten on my hair—strangled gasp. I kiss this heat, then again, then again. The construction of pleasure is delicate, slow—and she is exasperated, panting, whining, moaning, “James, I’m too—will you—I want—”

I remove the underwear, go to her, let my fingers replace my tongue, almost unwilling to take any satisfaction of my own; it would be enough—always enough—to watch her fall apart, face twisting with gratification, cheeks stained in dew and pink. But she crushes me to her kiss, swallows me whole, and asks me for myself—so I settle over her carefully, her legs twisting my thighs, breath like a pulsing string that ties me to her need—“Please,” she moans. “Please.”

This part, we’ve done before—but, perhaps, not under such emotional duress, such beautiful catharsis. I spread her hair back from her forehead so I can see her face, her beautiful face. She cranes her neck up to kiss me, hands sliding down my back to cup my arse, draw me forward, right where she wants me.

I have to bury in her neck at the sensation. Filling her whole—the hands that urge me—her legs, tightening. This undoing even prior to undoing. And then she whispers in my ear, “ _Potter_ ” and it’s the torpedo that sinks the entire fucking ship.

***

_Lily_

There’s no possible room to linger, here—and James knows this, his tempo quick from the get-go, face born down on mine with fierce intensity, lip-biting concertation—biting mine, biting his—and I am floored by the speed of the rising, the unstoppable force tugging us upward, onward—and it’s all I can do to lay back and let him take me, fingers gripping at biceps and neck and hair, holding him in place as his hips rail mine, just so, his fingers pulsing, just so, at my peak—his breathless words,“ _I’m so close,_ ” bringing on an almost perverse need to watch him as he comes. I yank his forehead to my forehead, our breaths linking in this irregular rhythm—and his eyes on mine like stars falling in some long-ago system, an ancient place—and then the bright peak, throwing light so blinding I call out to it, if in pain; his own cry, distant, happening off-planet.

The bliss buzzes relentlessly. His body stills on mine. He leans forward, panting, and I call him “ _baby_ ” and this does something severe to him—his exhale like an ocean of exhaustion, caught between my tongue and lips. And surely, we’ve kissed before, and recently, with quicker paces, with warring tongues: But with none such feeling. The gentle, steadfast burning, a growing ease, a relieved exaltation, a steady, honored bliss. I feel bathed in it, like the glow of warm lamplight.

James reburies his face in my neck. I kiss his sweet hair, again and again. His breathing steadies into my chest. He is tired. I want to hold him, let him sleep for days. There is something he’s kept from me—the apology in his eyes, earlier, the fear I would not understand. Whatever this burden is, it’s heavy. I can only carry him if he’ll allow.

“Hey,” I murmur, into his forehead, and he turns his face against my throat, presses his lips there. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

He emerges. Finds my eyes. “You’ll come with?”

Finger stroking down his jaw. A kiss. A reassurance. “Yes.”

And this look—the relief, the exhaustion, the adoration—I will hold onto—now, and long after.

***

The bed shifts; a body moving back into place. Bright room. Closed eyelids colored rose. A lethargy through all of my limbs; this was a long sleep. A restful sleep. The body moves carefully at my back—the quick brush of lips to my shoulder—an arm reaching around my waist. Whisper soft.

The half-sleep lingering; even here, I shift back, mold to his body, rest my fingers over his.

Lips on my shoulder, just passing by. I blink past the remains of sleep; find the bright room, sunshine painting the floor. Feel my lungs expand with early breath. A calm, unlike anything, settles. Still waters.

I slip my fingers through the spaces between his. Another hand up his warm arm, finding his neck, and cheek. Turn to look. He is clear-eyed—no glasses. One hassled, endearing lock of hair, flopped over the forehead. Beautiful. “Hi.”

Can’t help this smile any more than I can help breathing air. “Hi.”

I’m turning onto my back, then to my side, to slide in, closer, to get a better look, to see the way he bites his lip, nervous. This trepidation I want to eliminate, immediately, whatever its origin. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, yeah,” he breathes, because here is my mouth, and here is his, and what are two mouths without the kiss that connects them—the soft throat sounds, the yearning, the closeness, the warmth. A steadying feeling of gladness spreads through me; gladness free of fear, free of hesitance. James liked the first kiss—comes back another, and I like that one, so I get myself a third, which lingers, just breath.

My fingers slow at his chest. I wonder, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking maybe I’m still asleep,” he murmurs, running a finger along my wrist. “Maybe I’m dreaming.” I smile shyly into his shoulder, press my lips to it. “What are you thinking?”

I sit up halfway, now, on an elbow, frustrating flood of hair falling over my shoulder. James reaches out, pushes it back with a steady hand, tangles his fingers on my jaw. “I’m thinking that I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

Turn to kiss his palm. “Happy.”

Hard not to just neck, continuously, eternally, lazily, in this bright morning room, the warmth of soft sheets, just bodies, two hearts. Between kisses, him asking, “did you sleep well?”

“Mhm, wonderful sleep. Did you—get enough sleep?”

“Passed out _instantly_ , yeah,” he says, grinning, falling onto his back, rubbing a hand all around his neck. “Haven’t slept that long in a while.”

“What time is it?” I wonder, sitting up, twisting to peek at the clock on his bedside table. “ _Eleven_?”

James is laughing, sitting up alongside me at this unbelieving tone. “You know it’s Sunday, right?”

“Yes, I know it’s Sunday, but—”

“Got somewhere to be?"

I turn to find him sitting there, leaning against the headboard very innocently, barechested, bright-eyed.

“No, absolutely nowhere to be.” I crawl straight onto his lap, taking his face between my hands, kissing him deep. He slips fingers up my back—and I can tell, already, just what sort of late morning he has in mind. I rock forward, just slightly—he moans. And then something pricks at the center of my forehead, and I pull back, pressing a thumb to his lips. “Hmm?” He spreads his fingers over my thighs, drags them up and down, libs rubbing together, eyes like liquid gold.

“I’ve a question.”

Fingers creep up my waist. “Ask away.”

“Um,” I swallow, suddenly feeling very foolish about what I’m about to ask. “Do you think you might—” I bite my lip, stupidly nervous—like a schoolgirl. “Er, want to be my boyfriend?”

His jaw all but unhinges—eyebrows pinch together—and he’s leaning to the side, reaching for his glasses. Once those are on, he’s looking at me in utter disbelief. “Can you—can you say that, one more time?”

I resist the eye-roll. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

His throat moves as he gulps. Shakes his head incredulously. “I—” he grabs my hands, yanks them to his chest. “You’ve got to feel this, it’s mental in here, right now.”

“James,” I say, needy, impatient for an answer, though I already know what it is.

“You’re just, absolutely, without a doubt, the single most amazing thing,” he explains, softly, fingers rising to my jaw, with careful slowness.

“Is that a yes?”

He smiles. “On one condition.”

This eye roll I cannot resist. “What condition?”

“That you’ll be my girlfriend, too.”

Biting at this smile to keep it away, because I cannot reward this dumb behavior, it’s totally uncalled for. “Actually, on second thought, I just decided I don’t want to date you anymore, because you’re being really rather annoying, and what sort of bloke has ‘conditions’ for—”

I’m being positively tackled to the bed, James coming down on me from above, my shriek unheeded as I’m trapped beneath lithe arms, his stupid smile. “You _gotta_ give me a moment to process this event, is all,” he’s saying, softly, smiling. “This whole Lily Evans, naked in my bed, asking _me_ , genuinely, if I think I’d might like to be her boyfriend—it’s maybe, quite possibly, yeah, an _actual_ fantasy I constructed in my head, fifth year.”

Stupid persistent endearing boy. “Well, Potter, I meant it.”

He’s groaning incredulously, burying his face in the sheets next to me. “Gods, don’t start now with the _Potter_ nonsense, I’m already hard, for chrissakes—”

“That's a thought you're going to have to hold, because I’ve got to use the bathroom.”

James makes a dramatic _oof_ sound as I push him off of me and head toward the edge of the bed. “But—” he starts, and the tone is different now, not joking, so I turn. He seems, suddenly, genuinely anxious.

I reach back for his hand. “What is it?”

He releases an unsteady breath. Honest unease. “I just want to make sure that you’re—that it’s really what you want.”

I hold his eyes. “It's really what I want.” Look down at our hands. “You're what I want.” I lean forward; steal a soft, prolonged kiss.

When I retreat, he’s ear-to-ear in smile. “Alright, Evans.”

***

_James_

I flop back down onto the bed and close my eyes and reexamine the past 24 hours of my life and decide that if it _is_ a dream, then it’s a very detailed, complicated dream, and Merlin save my soul if that’s the case, because it’ll be _incredibly_ demoralizing to wake from.

But as I stretch out sleepy limbs, hear their various creaks and protests, I feel a growing sensation of being grounded—as though I might be a real, solid person—and that the shuffling from behind my bathroom door is, likely, the real, solid Lily, who has managed, essentially, to obliterate my world a handful of times in the aforementioned 24 hours.

And of course, this is what I want—again, and again, and again.

She emerges from the bathroom not minutes later and I peek up from my fallen form to watch her approach—naked, still, very naked—my side of the bed, sit down, regard me coolly. “I was thinking, in there, that maybe we should have—”

“—sex—”

“—a meeting about our relationship.”

I sit up, swing my legs around the bed. She is now giving me a real look of _you randy 17-year-old sod._

“I’m sorry, I’d love to have a meeting. I love meeting with you. I mean—I love professional, sort of, conversations—”

She rolls her eyes—and I’ve just _got_ to ignore the way any small movement vibrates across her chest, breasts quavering, so close to me—so touchable—and she’s saying something, the first half of which I’ve completely missed—“—fully clothed, over tea, that’s fine.”

“Hm?”

A light—totally deserved—shove to the shoulder. “You’re truly just staring at my tits, aren’t you?”

I look up at her, mouth opening and closing in a stupid grin, positively guilty as charged. “I’m sorry,” I quash—or try, very hard, to quash—the grin. “They’re just really quite nice—a bit uncovered, rather hard to ignore—”

“You’re hopeless.”

But she’s smiling, she likes the attention, she’s leaning back on her elbows. Green eyes glittering.

I pinch my eyes shut, rubbing them with fingers, to get the titillating image of her from my mind. “So, I’m sorry, you’d like to meet, er, professionally, over tea, to discuss what, now?”

“James.”

“Like, for example, rules on when I am or am not allowed to stare at your fairly exposed chest, which is properly unfair, by the way—but I can try, I can work on averting my eyes—”

She’s pulling me, hand on neck, to a sweet mouth. She’s rolling over, resting her body down on mine, languid, the soft breasts of my fixation pressing, sumptuously; irrefutably godsent. She breaks, looks down at me—and she knows, she knows exactly what she does to me.

I close my eyes, crane upward to kiss her. Impossibly grateful that she wants anything to do with me, that she took a chance on me, that she wants me to be her Merlin-forsaken boyfriend—that she wants to _have a meeting about our relationship_.

I slide a hand down her body, between her legs, and she moans, settles into the friction. This is critical contact to my own want, insistent, amongst. “Can we take this one slow?” she’s at my ear. “I want— _ooh_ —I want to really feel you.”

I extract my fingers. Bring them to my mouth. Taste her.

Her breath huffs out all at once, whiny, affected.

I lay back, lay my hands at her hips, grin up. “I’m all yours, Head Girl.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hi there!!! many apologies for how long this chapter took to get up—i really reworked it to death! it's a bit longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for the wait—and, as always, thank you for reading & reviewing :)

And I would give all this and heaven too  
I would give it all if only for a moment  
That I could just understand  
The meaning of the word you see  
'Cause I've been scrawling it forever  
But it never makes sense to me

—Florence + The Machine, “All This and Heaven Too”

* * *

_James_

As the late morning turns to early afternoon, Lily receives an alarmed owl from Dorcas ( _Lily Evans??????? Dead??????????_ ) and I, an equal unhinged note from Sirius ( _If you managed to properly pass on from a tiny little wolf scratch, I’d say you deserve it—that being said, need me to send Poppy up there to revive you?)_.

And so, Lily vacates my bed—and I try not to weep, watching her soft body leave, taking the long, long way across the hall to her own room—in favor of a shower, so that we may join our needy friends for lunch.

I take my own shower, after which the not even halfway-decent quick dry spell leaves my hair a hopeless disarray that I have to run my hand through again and again (avoid thinking of all the times she’s done the same) before pulling on pants and a burgundy jumper.

Lily’s door is wide open. I lean against the frame, watch as she pulls her hair into a twist, secures it with a clip. She tugs on a navy cardigan over her tshirt and jeans, reaches for a necklace on top of the bureau, fastens it around her neck. Notices me. Grins. Grabs a pair of white sneakers and yanks them onto her feet, bending to tie the laces. Stands up.

“I want to thank you, for, um—” I clear my throat, touch my left cheek. “This.”

Her brow cinches. She approaches me and brings her own fingers to the cheek, gives an unconvincing smile. “Can’t have anything messing up this pretty face.” Finger pauses at the jaw, trace the invisible injury. I see her lingering uncertainty, and wish desperately that I could explain the apprehension away.

There is one thing I _can_ reassure her of. “I would never hurt you.”

She looks up, surprised. “I know.”

***

We’re not a corridor away from the Great Hall when she stops walking and looks at me. “How are we going to handle this?”

She looks so serious, a touch of fear coloring green eyes, and I bring our linked hands to my lips, kiss her fingers. “You mean, are we going to waltz in there and declare ourselves to the entirety of the Hogwarts lunch crowd?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

If she wasn’t such a solid presence in front of me, fingers such solid bone beneath mine, I might still think I was in some elaborate, coma-like sleep. I have to interfere on my own thought process, ground myself in her asking, quite seriously, if I’ve any input on how I’d like to present our very new relationship to our friends and peers. It seems ludicrous that this would ever be possible—and now, here I am.

The Boyfriend.

“Maybe we should stand up on a table and yell, _really_ loud, that people should henceforth refer to as a pair, not two separate people,’” I suggest. “What do you think?”

She drops my hand—shoves at my shoulder. “I think that’s no help at all, you imbecile.”

“Okay, noted, okay, how about this: we walk in on opposite sides and meet at the front of the room, and kiss for, let’s say, roughly three minutes, or just till people get the idea.”

“James, that’s absolutely—”

“—we don’t have to use _tongue_ if that’s what you’re—”

“Fancy this, huh, meeting you lot, out here?”

We both swivel to find Marlene approaching from down the hall, pink-sweatered. She zeroes in on Lily. “Haven’t died then, have we?”

“Oh, wow, hey, Marls!” Lily exclaims, perhaps a bit too loudly, too enthusiastically, and I watch as she steps back from me, wringing her hands together. “I was—it was—”

“I wasn’t worried, in the least,” Marlene is rolling forward, seemingly unconcerned with any explanation Lily might offer for her absence from breakfast. “Far too much dependency on _the presence of Lily Evans_ at all meals, if you ask me.” She touches her fingers to Lily’s delicate necklace, saying, “I like this, is this new?”

“What? I don’t even—” Lily glances down at the chain, the charm, oddly, as though she’s never seen it before in her life—then back up at Marlene, strange light in her eyes. “Oh, it’s—not new, I just haven’t worn it in a while, I guess.”

“Hmm. Alright, weirdo.” She glances back at me, then to Lily, then shakes her head. “Let’s go on, then, I’m right tuckered, again, should’ve known a measly three-mile in that brisk wind could deplete a woman’s nutrients in this way.”

Marlene has already begun walking toward the hall, unmindful of the panicked eyes Lily throws my way. I shrug and lend her what I hope is a big, warm, reassuring smile. She sucks at her teeth, shakes her head—then turns to follow Marlene into the hall.

The rest of Lily’s friends are already seated, clumped together near the middle of Gryffindor table—and I’m only slightly surprised to find that the Marauders-sans-Remus-and-I have joined them, Peter tucked in next to Mary, with whom he has recently bonded with over a mutual enthusiasm—obsession, really—for Care of Magical Creatures. And there’s Sirius, next to Mary, engaged in a jovial across-the-table discussion with Ingrid and Dorcas. A conversation which is disrupted, briefly, by the arrival of Marlene, making herself at home next to Ingrid, and then the awkward intrusion of me, next to Marlene—watching—likely with careful eyes—as Lily settles in across from me. 

I can tell that her level of soft panic hasn’t lessened. If we weren’t so surrounded, I might reach for her fingers, stroke her knuckles, lean forward on my elbows, kiss her softly. Tell her she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Pluck the worry right off her crinkled brow.

Instead, I just align my feet with hers beneath the table; watch a small smile appear.

“By the light of a bright winter day, do my eyes deceive me?” This from Sirius, appraising me with across the table. “Or has James Potter decided to grace us with his presence?”

“You well, Padfoot?”

“Very well,” he responds, slowly, watching me with careful consideration, as I grab a plate and help myself to a healthy portion of steak and kidney pie. He’s trying to suss me out, I can tell, just from the lines of my face. I won’t give him an ounce.

“Good sleep, Lily?” Dorcas asks. I glance down the table, find the same sort of suspicious assessment radiating from the dark-haired witch, her chin balanced delicately atop folded hands.

Lily keeps her eyes fixed on her fork and knife, sunk into a plateful of Cornish pasty. “Decent sleep, thanks, Dor.”

“Unlike you to sleep in.” Ingrid muses. Her hair, recently turned deep purple, crowns her forehead in intricate, looped braids. 

“Would be a real shame if you weren’t well-rested, after all that sleeping, anyway,” Mary adds, stirring a pinch of cream into her tea.

All about the table, sparkling, ridiculous eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on my lunch.

“Say, are you ill?” Peter leans on his elbow to look at Lily, a genuine concern flowering his face. Bless his blonde-haired head and this excruciating ambivalence to the teasing, and its origin, and all the tight-lipped female smiles surrounding. “Awful lot of distress around here for your sleeping schedule.”

“Not just Lily’s sleeping schedule that’s off, Pete,” Sirius has an unwarranted look of confidence strewn across his handsome face. “Because, oddly, it’s aligning _real_ well with that of our fearless Head Boy.”

“And I, for one,” Dorcas adds, an unabashed smile now on her face. “Would be interested to know if there’s less _sleeping_ going on than we’ve been led to believe.”

Lily’s forehead falls forward into her hands. “ _Fuckssake._ ”

Ingrid’s composure breaks, just a bit, a high, hysterical giggle escaping. Marlene jabs her in the side with an elbow. “I’m apt to let my imagination run wild, certainly, if no one clears this all up for me.”

Lily groans. “Would it clear things up for you if I was just swallowed up by the floor and never seen again?”

My own smile is now too pronounced to contain. No amount of avoidance could quell this mocking, and I can hardly find myself offended by it, knowing that it comes from a place of love.

Lily emerges, slowly, from between her hands, looks at me—shakes her head when she finds my own participation in the glee. But—perhaps in spite of herself, perhaps with the knowledge that _getting it over with_ is the only real way through, now—the very corner of her own mouth quirks upward.

The air: Taut in anticipation. She sweeps an embarrassed gaze around at the tableful of expectant stares, pinches her nose between fingers, rubs her lips together, inhales, exhales. Lays a long suffering palm out across the table. I recognize the gesture, and take her hand.

Glimmering eyes alight all around.

“Is this what you want?” Lily sighs like she’s addressing a clattering of wily, impatient children—which, all said, is not far from the truth.

“What is going on!” Marlene is bursting with grin, pivoting her head frantically between Lily and me. “What is going on!”

“So, this is, what, a thing, now?” Sirius looks at me, intentionally. I offer him the stupidest fool smile I can muster—but no response. He swings his eyes on Lily. “Evans, you’ll be honest with me, I know you will. Tell me: Are you dating this bloke?”

She meets his eyes. “I....am.”

Needlessly dramatic gasps and the unprecedented clapping of hands abound. “Oh _gods_ ,” Mary blubbers.

“May I be the first to offer my congratulations, and without any bit of ‘ _I told you so_ ,’” Ingrid reaches forward happily to pat her hand over our hands.

“I’ll say the ‘ _I told you so,’_ I’m not afraid.” Mary says brightly.

“Thanks for that.” Lily’s face is back in the cave of her hand, shielding her from the group. I rub my thumb over hers.

“Potter,” Dorcas calls from down the table.

I turn. “Meadowes.”

Her stare—deep blue eyes, like a saltwater wave—is piercing. Pins me to the spot. “If you hurt her, I’ll fucking kill you.”

I swallow, instilled with a quick and serious fear. I’ve seen the aggression she takes out on the Quidditch field. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, let alone myself. “I’m not going to—”

“—Dorcas, really,” Lily interjects, helplessly.

“—hurt her, honest.”

Sirius has watched the whole affair unravel, amused, and is now regarding Dorcas with newfound respect. “I felt a genuine shiver, down my spine, just now,” he admits to her, quietly, eyebrows thrown upward in admiration. Dorcas shrugs, like _what can I say? I’m intimidating_.

“Okay, if you _lot_ are quite through, we can all just have a regular lunch, get on with our lives?” there’s a desperate, pleading note in Lily’s voice.

Marlene has a real wicked look about her. “Only if you two snog right now, in front of all of us, to prove you’re telling the truth.”

“Yeah, I second the motion,” Ingrid pops in.

I roll my eyes—though, beneath the gesture, I’m morally unopposed to the suggestion. Lily, on the other hand, is going red in the face. “We’ll—we’ll be doing no such thing, thanks very much.”

“Fine,” Marlene shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to follow all the long way back to the Heads quarters to see how long it takes you to tear right into each other.”

Lily releases an irritated breath, and it’s so close to the type of breath she snatches, impatiently, in the throes of a very different circumstance that I choke a bit on the air, and have to cough, clear my throat. She shoots me an admonishing look.

“Now, I’m hard pressed to think of a time in recent weeks when I didn’t think these two were _already_ dating,” Peter says, allegedly having reentered the realm of the group interaction. “Not sure why it’s coming as such a shock to you lot.” His mouth curves into a curious comma-shape. “And I’m fairly certain it’s been _much_ long before that they were, in fact, shagging each other.”

Sirius hides his bark of laughter in his palms. Dorcas, Mary, Ingrid, and Marlene blink in wide-eyed shock.

“Sometimes, Pete, it’s clever to think of what you’re about to say, _before_ you actually say it,” I chide, gently, looking up nervously to gauge Lily’s reaction.

It seems she’s much less concerned with Peter’s bluntness than anyone else’s. She’s grinning, actually. “Can’t place it, but I really find your honesty _amusing_ rather than _infuriating_ , Pete—which I can’t say is at all true for the rest of this cheery bunch.” Her ankle shifts, crooks about mine.

“I’ll take that dig, Lils, I’ve had worse.” Marlene flicks a positive waterfall of curls over her shoulder, just nearly missing my eye. “And anyway, speaking of who’s shagging who—I don’t want to absolutely _ruin_ a Hufflepuff’s life, but—”

“Never stopped you before,” Ingrid grumbles.

“—there’s that kid from Astronomy, Mary, yeah? Joon? Tall, with the—?”

“Weird ears?”

“ _Yes_ , ears, so you’ll never guess who he’s—”

I tune the conversation out, breath rushing slowly from my chest, thankful that the New Relationship fixation is averted, at least temporarily. I look up to find Lily being interrogated beneath Sirius’ special sort of stare. She asks, quietly, “What’s the matter?”

After a moment, he shakes his head. Grins. “Godspeed. That’s all—Godspeed.”

***

_Lily_

To have survived the onslaught of lunch makes me feel like I can survive anything—except, that is, being ducked through the dark, arched, confining entryway of the Head’s quarters only to be backed straight up against the cold stone wall, the welcome light of the common room mere steps beyond our stopping; to be bracketed by his weight, his shadowed body, darkened eyes, palms running down my arms, twining fingers, laying them flat on the wall behind—this, I’m not sure I’ll survive. 

And if it's his intention is to relay the frustration of having to sit through a lunch in which our every private going-on was spotlit, and then teased, mercilessly—all while living with the memory of a morning’s worth of _long warm good_ sensation and the accompanying devotion, a feeling so intense it spikes through like a hard wind—then he succeeds.

The quick, hot gale of his breath on my chin. His stepping closer, flattening against me, the tilt of hips—a groan. Belonging. I am his—not in the way of ownership, not in the way of reluctance, not in the way of I cannot think for myself—I am _his_. Soul-wise. Body-wise. My hands useless, trapped.

 _Touch me_ , I want to beg.

He knows the devastation of brushing lips lightly over mine. Ghostly. Gone too quick. The tentative push of my hips, asking. His answer: Soft, leaving mouth. I plead, tongue first, for more. He quashes the childish rebellion, takes my tongue between his lips, sucks. I relinquish, whimpering; melt to the wall, his solid form. He kisses like he’s searching for something, meticulous, deliberate—no stone unturned. Air leaves me in a hollow column of need; trapped between his teeth. Heartrate bolts. My thighs squeeze together, press longingly to his; desperate, untouched pulse between.

And if he’s not tortured me enough—lethargic tongue tracing the plane of jaw, cheek, long stretch of neck; kisses like prayers to the hollow of my throat. My hips roll forward, wanting. One long, swelling moan. This time, his. He inhales an ocean of air. Meets my eyes in half-shadow.

I breathe, “Are you going to let me touch you?”

He smiles, briefly. Releases my hands to splay my hips roughly, sliding down to my ass for a quick and sudden lift—I yelp, jostled forward into his chest, legs scrambling at his waist. He pulls me close, kisses me once, sweetly. Carries me forward, into the light, over to the couch, which he sinks onto backward, looking up at me, open-faced. Warm hands move up under my sweater and shirt. I settle over his thigh. The sensation of jeans borne down so heavily is an immediate, spiking heat; I exhale unsteadily. I know—without proof of experience—that if I were to move, here, for just a small fraction of time, I would crack in two.

“If your goal was to get me all hot and bothered,” I fall forward, against his ear, run my tongue along the lobe. “Then congratulations, Potter.”

He laughs, but it’s breathy, short-lived; my hand has found his own want, traces the exasperated outline of his cock. I swallow his groan with my lips; knot fingers in his hair, tug, devour, grinding against his leg, now, unselfconscious, feeling a friction so tremendous that it requires a fantastic amount of air, and whining, and his lips.

“Does that feel good?” his voice is ragged, punished for breath, fingers sliding down to palm my arse through my jeans.

I nod, tugging at the buttons of my cardigan to free myself from its heat, throw it aside. He watches me in wonder and desperation and unashamed warmth, fingers tightening on my languid hips. I reach for the clip that keeps my hair up; release the flood from its prior confines; lean in for his mouth, press insistently till his lips part with infuriating slowness—reach down to palm his hardness, but he snatches my hand, pulls me off.

“Don’t,” he says, in a strange, new tone. Commanding. It prickles deliciously against the skin of my neck; bites at the dangerous liaison of jeans-on-thigh. Sweat pools between my breasts. He brings the persecuted hand to his lips, eyes fixed on mine. He kisses the wrist. A wake of goosebumps; my quickening breath. “I want to watch you get off.”

I gasp—flooded instantly with a need so potent it pains.

Another soft kiss to the wrist; then his fingers slide up my arm to swiftly usurp my shirt, filling quickly, fully, with bra, the breast beneath. I splay his hand with my own, pressing till the buried nipple hardens, cut in arousal—and I’m moaning dumbly— _he wants to watch me get off_.

The impact of this instruction: Un _fucking_ thinkable.

Hips grind on, needy, deplorably so, guided by the unimaginable heat of his eyes on me, hands on me—and I’m remembering his fingers _in_ me—cock _in_ me—lips _on_ me—and now there’s no way out but death. His throat moves vulnerably at every hitch of my breath, my every whine like punctuation to a recklessly run-on sentence. And as if I’m not already ruined, beyond repair, pulled straight to the bottom of the sea—body trembling for release, cunt wrecked in heat and wet and brightness—his hand is at the back of my neck, firm, unyielding, his broken breath forming something like my name.

My fingers scramble his chest, grasping; no breath left in my lungs but for the semblance of a sob as I stutter on his thigh—and the electrocution, the great unspooling tugged up from unfathomable depth; my legs clench for the desperate shock of it; spasm against the warm, inflicted flood.

James mutters, _fuck_ , and I’m—torn apart, jolting, rampaged. I collapse to his shoulder—not one sweet word away from weeping, thanking every deity I know a name for.

He presses lazy kisses to my neck. Hands slow down my back. Heatstuck. I mold to him, slothfully. The throbbing slows, desists, my fingers fluttering over his sweater, neck. Perhaps, if I let go of the responsibility of schoolwork, of any future, of patrols and meetings and examinations—I can stay here, pleasured, held, forever.

His breath is warm. I shift so his neck can turn, find my eyes. Golden eyes aglitter. He drinks in the sight of me in. I must be absolutely flustered, a mess of red cheeks and strands. I kiss him. Adore him. He ought to know. I have to clear my throat, touch his lips with a tentative finger. “Where did, um, _that_ fellow come from?”

It’s not unknown between us, I suppose, that I’m insufferable in my desire to be in charge. Of course, James can hold his own, and seems to relish in my impatience, demands, and all the resulting sensation—but I’ve yet to confess to him that the small bits of dominance he’s allowed to slip through have left within me hungry for something greater; a firmer hand. _Can he read me that well?_

He looks bashful, now, a far cry from the boy that not minutes ago was insisting I _get myself off on his leg while he watched_. “I dunno,” he says, quietly. “Was it—too much, for you?”

“No,” I choke out, pushing back from him so I can look him full-on. “I—I _liked_ it.”

James shifts beneath me, resituating his legs, the movement aggravating latent heat, a reminder of just how _much_ I liked it. I lean in, hair falling around our heads like a curtain, kiss him soft. “I feel a smidge selfish, though,” I admit, shifting so my knee finds his uncared-for want.

His brow twitches, briefly, but he shakes his head, kisses me again, solidly. “Not selfish,” he spreads a hand back through my loose hair. “You’ve—you’ve no idea what you do to me, huh?”

I exhale—and it’s an annoying, revealing whimper. Pull his mouth back to mine. “I can help with that, really.”

“I know you can,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to my forehead, now. Then an arduous sigh. Leaning against the couch, looking at me with remorseful eyes. “But—I have to let go of you right now, and clear my head, and go do my Merlin-forsaken homework—because if I don’t, I will just throw you over my shoulder and take you to bed for the rest of the year.”

I suppress a pained smile to little success. “I can’t believe you put that offer on the table only to snatch it off so meanly.”

He rubs his hands all over his face. “ _Gods_ , Lily.”

“ _But_ , I can hardly be wounded that you’re choosing schoolwork over me.” I discharge my coy smile, push myself up and off him. I bend to collect my sweater, my hairclip, reassemble myself.

James leans his elbows onto his knees, looks up at me. His hair is adorably askew. “Rue the day I have to sit in class and try not to think about you....” he shakes his head. Swallows. Gestures to his thigh. “... _here_.”

“Rue tomorrow, then,” I breathe, arching an eyebrow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see to a brief change of clothes.”

His stifled moan follows me out of the common room. I feel it in all the places I shouldn’t.

***

_James_

For personal safety reasons, Lily and I sit in different corners of the library come Sunday afternoon. When Sirius and Peter join me, they’re dumbstruck to find me apart from her. “Fighting already?” Peter asks.

“Wait—” Sirius throws out a hand. “She found that weird scrapbook you made with that strand of her hair fourth year, didn’t she?”

“Wrong on both counts, lads.” I don’t even afford them the courtesy of a glance, staying nose-deep in a Potions assignment. “It’s all in the name of concentration. Self-preservation.”

“I know you’re not looking at me right now, but I’m actually vomiting.”

“Good to know, Padfoot. How’s Remus?”

It’s the last night of a full moon, fortunately, but last I saw Remus—an unpleasant encounter, one I’d rather not revisit—he wasn’t at his best. “Fine, he owled earlier.” Peter responds, flapping open a book and arranging his quills just so on the table. “Seems like he might not, er, remember the incident.”

“Best we leave it that way, yeah?” I look up, find them both nodding in agreement. Goes without saying none of us enjoy seeing our best mate turned more or less feral against his will. And we also know that any slip in his composure during a change—despite the mind-clearing aid of wolfsbane—is something over which he harbors immense shame and regret.

Sirius asks, “you’re still coming tonight?”

“Course,” I respond. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t know how you were, uh, handling it with the missus.”

“ _Missus_?”

“Sorry, sorry—your _beloved_ , whatever, fuck.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, we had a bit of a—er, encounter, last night, when I was coming back with, well—you know.” I motion to my cheek.

“What, she saw?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, I made a bit of a racket—er, ran into a table.”

“Sodding klutz.”

I glare at Sirius. “She asked about it, obviously, and was upset, of course. But I told her I couldn’t really explain without telling her a secret that wasn’t mine to tell.” I shrug. “And she trusts me enough to be okay with that, I guess.”

Sirius appears baffled by this.

“What?”

He cards a hand through his hair. It’s grown out since the beginning of the school year; brushes the edges of his shoulders in black waves. “I’m just—genuinely surprised, I guess, that you wouldn’t tell her.”

“Well of course I _want_ to tell her,” I clarify, adamantly. “But I don’t find it very respectful to do so without talking to Remus first, and now’s not such a great time to talk to him, if you weren’t aware.”

“I think that’s perfectly reasonable,” Peter nods his approval. “Lily’s quite pragmatic herself, I’d say, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Pete—thanks.”

Sirius blanches. “I bet she’s already put it together on her own.”

I set down my quill where it’s stilled on the parchment. “You think?”

He shrugs. “Doubt she hasn’t noticed that his monthly bouts of illness correspond rather perfectly with the full moon cycle.”

“I’d truly never considered the possibility,” I say, honestly, surprised with myself. “I’ve been thinking about it in terms of she’d be upset or irritated with _me_ about not explaining, that I didn’t even think of her making any connection to Remus.”

“Figures, self-centered dolt that you are,” Sirius grins. “Girls like Lily don’t come along that often, Prongs, you’ve got to appreciate her for her _smarts_ , not just her _knockers_.”

This earns him a swift kick to the shin. “Oi, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about, yeah? Rather you didn’t talk about her _knockers_ , arsehole.”

“Fuckalright,” Sirius rubs at his shin, appearing almost as wounded as the time I transmogrified his broom into a toad. “I solemnly swear, troops honor, crikey.”

“Wait, James—” Peter’s interceding. There’s a confused light in his blue eyes. “What happened _after_ all the business with you running into the table? Lily just—what? Decided to start dating you because of a crummy cut to the cheek?”

Sirius—injury forgotten, it seems—leans forward enthusiastically. “Yes, Wormy, excellent question—I’m vastly curious on that point, myself.”

I pick up my quill, refocus on Potions. “Don’t you boys have a Dark Arts essay to attend to?”

***

One easy-enough Potions assignment and two brutal Divination charts later, it’s almost time we’re due to join Remus in the loveliest accommodation in town (Shrieking Shack) for a night of romping around as our animals-selves. I tell Peter and Sirius I’ll meet them on the first floor after dropping my things in my room. 

I find Lily at a table behind the History of Magic stacks, which are seldom visited, especially at night. She’s not alone—Mary’s with her, their heads are bowed together, consulting quietly on a mess of papers in front of them. I hover, momentarily, watching from afar. Perhaps my mind has already forgotten what my heart knows to be true— _that’s your girlfriend, genius. You can just go talk to her_.

I clear my throat upon approach. Lily and Mary both look up.

“Oh, _hi_ , James,” Mary grins bombastically.

“Mary,” I nod toward her in greeting.

Lily’s smile is smaller, understated. “How’s the work?”

“All done, if you’ll believe it.” Outrageous that just the sight of her, the sound of her voice, could drum up such a heartbeat, such a sweat down the back of my neck. “Actually, I’m headed back to the rooms.”

She looks back down at her work—Arithmancy, or else Alchemy, the two subjects solely with Mary—and then back to me, remorsefully. “I’m hours away from—but, I’ll walk you out?”

“Smashing.”

Mary is beside herself. “Hippogriff almighty—off to _snog_? In the _corridor?_ ”

I wave to her cheerfully. “Happy studying, Mary.”

“I’m strongly considering getting new friends,” Lily tells me as we vacate the library, find the quiet hall. “Not sure they’re worth the trouble at this point.”

“You’ve got such a handful of good ones, though. Don’t think you should let go of that.”

She turns, hand on my arm, sensing the sincere note in my voice. “Alright?”

 _This is the hard part_. _From here, it will only get easier_. “It’s just—I won’t be, er, back tonight, again, till late.”

I watch her process the information. Her forehead cinches, slightly, and she nods, small. Fingers tighten at my arm. “You’ll be careful, whatever you’re doing?”

“Yes. No more—” I gesture at my cheek. “None of that.”

“Okay,” her voice is quiet. Something else flits over her now, unreadable. She looks up at my eyes, for a long second; inhales slowly. “Can I say something—er, a bit self-deprecating? Sort of foolish?”

I nod, hesitantly. “Sure.”

Her hand falls away. “I am really worried I’m going to boff this.”

“Boff—?”

She motions between our bodies.

I am, admittedly, stumped. “Uh—okay, um, can you elaborate?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears, brow a positive curve of desperation. Her eyes are helpless in a way that suggests sadness, perhaps, though I can’t pinpoint the source—especially given that most of our recent interactions have been _decidedly_ positive.

“Well, I did it one time, already,” she says, grimacing. “And I just—I want to make sure I’m there for you, and—I know it sounds stupid, logically, I _know_ , but I can’t help but feel like I’m not, er, giving you enough.” She's staring into my shoulder. “I know it’s irrational. I still feel it, though, and I just—I thought you should know. In the name of being open.”

 _Not_ giving _me enough?_ I reach for her face, till I find floundering eyes. “Lils, I—I’m sorry that you’re anxious, and surely even irrational worry is valid, but—” I exhale. “I need you to know that the past—I don’t hold that against you, alright? I think that—that sometimes growing requires space, and now that we’re here, you know, in _this_ space, together, we can grow in a new way, together. As partners.” I shrug, stupidly. “I’d say between the two of us we’ve got at least half a brain, yeah? A good shot, I’d say.”

She laughs—there’s a gleam to her eye, elusive, her face changed to a lesser portrait of concern, at the very least, and something else, something fluttering at the edges, brighter.

“At the risk of sounding like a tired sentimental,” I’m close enough to find the trifecta of freckles aside her nose; precious things. “You give me enough just by being here with me.”

I watch her mouth part with shallow breath. She reaches out for my hand, brings it flat against her ribs. “If irrational anxiety is an uncomfortable prickling, in here,” she molds her fingers to mine, clutches them closer. “Then you’ve plucked that out.” Her eyes pools of disbelief, or else wonder—or else, tenderness. “It’s just warm now—calm.” Now she’s craning upward for my mouth. “Thank you.”

I want to tell her: _I’ve felt that warm, that calm. That’s love_. _That’s our love_.

But I settle for folding her into my arms, kissing her hair—feeling as though we’ve been set adrift on some indigo sea, blanketed in the dark wash of dusk.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and for being here. This story is becoming a labor of love—and I want to make sure I give it the attention it deserves! Chapters might be a little longer from here on out. I have so much I want to include! Thanks for sticking with it/reading/reviewing. I have the sweetest readers—I really appreciate you all :)

These are the hands of fate  
You're my Achilles heel  
This is the golden age of something good  
And right and real

—Taylor Swift, “State of Grace”

* * *

_James_

“—just that it’s entirely a load of rubbish!”

“Rubbish? Don’t be absurd. It’s real and true as either of us.”

Lily’s shoulder digs into mine briefly as a pack of reckless Slytherins beelines through the hall, forcing the mass of breakfast-goers aside in their unsanctioned passing. 

“Oi!” Lily shouts, voice seeming too loud for her stature, defying the crowded hallway against all laws of physics—and, for that matter, laws of magic. “Some composure, perhaps?”

A head turns in the pack and does her the quick decency of responding by way of middle finger.

“Don’t they have anything _better_ to do than try and get detention on a Monday morning?”

I hike my bag closer on my shoulder and grin. “In their DNA, Evans.”

She shakes her head and returns her attention to me. “Anyway—that passage is so obviously a rumor made up so first-years don’t do anything stupid and dangerous in the lower-levels.”

“You’re not often wrong, so I realize this is difficult for you to process,” I say. “But I really wouldn’t speak too quickly on subjects you’ve no experience in.”

“No exp—” Lily whips her gaze to me. “So you’ve been in it, is what you’re telling me? In this incredibly roundabout, condescending way?”

“I’m not being _condescending_ ,” I am still grinning, perhaps against my best interests. “I would never _condescend_ to you.”

Her eye roll is a force of nature in itself. “Are you going to tell me about how or when or why you accessed this legendary, _treacherous_ tunnel underneath the school or are you going to keep being a real prick about it?”

We’re at the lip of the great hall, now, descending on Gryffindor table. “Maybe I’ll tell you, someday, if you’re nice to me, how about that?”

“How about I practice my non-verbal Tongue-Twist jinx on you?”

“How about we skip class and practice that in a broom closet?”

She wheels on me. “ _No_ broom closets!”

“Woah, Lils, second year, ten o’clock,” I catch her about the waist, making sure there’s no second-year fatalities in the sudden turn.

She twists; apologizes to the rattled Hufflepuff—“Gods, sorry, not looking where I’m going”—then turns back to me, rueful.

“Aversion to broom closets?”

A shudder passes over her. “Reminds me of Owen.”

_Oh_. “In a...good way?”

She gives me a withering look. Sighs. “Bad way.”

I duck my head in a short nod. “I see.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not _pleased_ with—”

“Breakfast, Potter.”

“Right. Sure. Breakfast.”

We continue into the hall till Lily spots her cohort, settling in next to Mary. Down the way are the Marauders, including Remus. He shoots me a healthy-looking smile. “I’ve—gotta—Remus is—”

“Go on, I’ll see you in Charms.” Lily says, turning toward me from the table—and before I’ve had even a millisecond to contemplate what sort of goodbye is allowed here, in the crowded noise of breakfast, she’s slipped a hand up my neck, and I’m stooping down as she pulls my lips to hers.

The kiss is quick and undramatic. A peck, really. But in its wake: This foolish smile. Her face telling me this is a surprise to her, too.

“Oh, so you two are like _dating_ , dating,” Marlene says, her expression of delighted disbelief mirrored all around the group, as well as with a good majority of the surrounding crowd, who have ceased their breakfast-eating to gape at this Lily Evans Kissing James Potter in the Great Hall.

“Charms, then.” I straighten my back, Lily’s hand slips away. She’s looking at me like _did I really just do that?_

When I slide in next to Peter down the table, Sirius is practically folding himself across the table to clap me raucously on the cheek. “ _Jamesie!_ ”

“Hell, Padfoot— _geroff_ —” I jostle against the touch, wrenching his hand off me till he’s flailed back across the table.

“Look at him! He’s flushed! Look at him!” Sirius jostles Remus’ shoulder now, pointing recklessly at my face.

“Good gods, Sirius, _yes,_ I see him.”

I ask Remus, “How’re you?”

“Sensational.” He bites into a toast. “Ruined just only a bit by Herbology make-up.”

Clipped laugh. “You can have my notes. Not sure Padfoot was fully present in those periods, if at all.”

Sirius is indignant, despite now having half a muffin stuffed in his mouth. “Hey, I was there!”

“Was I there?” Peter asks, more to his bowl of oats than any of us.

I ignore them both. “Listen, Moony, I—we need to talk about—well, with Lily, and with—”

“James. You can tell her.”

“You're—really?”

He nods. His dusty blonde hair is parted very particularly, very neatly, into a soft wave brushing over his forehead. For all the time I’ve known him, Remus has never acted without this exact sort of measured certainty. He’s a man of deliberate, precise action. What he can control—he does. “Yes. I’ve had time to think about this—and there’s just no question, she should know. You trust her. I trust her.” Small shrug. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“Remus—” I swallow past an unexpected lump in my throat, the din of the great hall hollowing out around me. His trust—immense, unyielding—is astounding. After all he’s been through. “Thank you.”

He wrinkles his nose, ducks his head. As if to say, _no big deal._

“Wait but—” Sirius is onto the second half of his muffin, talking around it. “Can I be there when you tell her about the— _oof_ —illegal part?”

“Yeah, actually. That part I think we should _all_ be present for.”

***

The Arithmancy classroom is empty save Lily, leaned against a table, regarding a chalkboard sprawled in two complicated half-filled charts. I watch as she glances to a notebook on the table, back to the board. She considers; tucks a strand of hair behind her ear; teeters a piece of chalk between fingers—then stands, approaches the first chart, scribbles something down. With the edge of her sleeve, she erases a whole row.

“What’s the future looking like?”

She turns. Her face is a story of tunneled absorption. “Haven’t a single clue.”

“What are these?” I ask, walking over to take a closer look at the charts, their jumble of letters and numbers. I have little recall of my own experience with Arithmancy—it might as well be another language.

“Fate-maps.” She sighs in a suffering, labored way. “And they’re killing me.”

“ _Fate_ maps?”

“Yeah.” She’s rifling through a textbook now, scouring some index. Her hair is braided down her back, long, red, beautiful. “We’re assigned two, each, and meant to divine the individual meanings as a pair—and each fate-integer—that’s the code with the—you know, every sixth and fourteenth star mean _x_ or _y_ vowel, then the consonants are fourth and eighteenth—”

She catches my losing battle with understanding any small bit of her explanation. “Okay, never mind. Regardless—the two maps—charts, I know, they look like charts—are meant to point to one fluctuating forecast. Prediction. You know.” She vaguely indicates a half-written sentence, next to the charts:

__ _blood _____ bone, the long _____ _____ ______. Tasked, _______. Evermore:_ _______ ________

The words and blank spaces are marked below with numbered code, which I assume corresponds somehow to the fate-maps and their unique divining combinations. Above the incomplete sentence is a rough sketch of a constellation, tiny dots connected by barely-reaching lines. I brush a knuckle against the chalky formation. “Aquarius.”

Lily appraises me approvingly, nods. “That’s the star system I’m assigned, to find the meaning. It’s being absolutely _impossible_ , for me, now.” There’s a schism of exasperation crinkling her eyes. She’s been at this a while, and to little avail. Stress rolls off of her in waves.

I point to a part in the second fate-map where three squares are labeled _AD1-AD2-AD3_. “Albus Dumbledore related?”

A flash of bemusement. She retreats to the table to set down the textbook and resumes her worried leaning. “I wish. Any small slice of clarity is welcome.”

I tuck my hands into my pockets, join her against the table. I run my eyes over her work, the shadowed white clouds of erased work, her deft, clear chalk-writing. On the far side of the board a scribbled note reads: _Wind further west has no impact on the east?_ Another, below it, in parentheses: _Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them._

“If anyone can figure it out, it’s you,” I reason. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

I glance over, find her looking at me. The tug of worry over the chalkboard momentarily shed, replaced by a look I can’t quite crack—one that encourages my face to tilt, meet the shallow breath between her lips. Goosebumps flare up and down my spine. Her kiss speaks of adoration; a soft and benevolent calm. I am spun through with it.

When she leans back, I exhale slowly. She says, “Practice tonight?”

“Practice tonight.” I affirm, regretfully. I miss the way time worked in the summer, those sun-buttered days free of responsibility. “Charms session with Alexander after. Charms session with _myself_ , after.”

“Sometime this week, will you—” A pause. She swallows something down. “Read my ethics in the Dark Arts essay?”

Swallowed _pride_. “Sure.”

Lily shuts her eyes briefly. “And be easy on me.”

“Can’t expect there’ll be much for me to help with, honestly, Lils.”

“Well, I think it’s rather awful, and I’m stuck.”

I put my hand on hers. “Then I’ll help any way I can.” Slide my fingers through the spaces between hers.

She looks down at our collected bones. “I had the weirdest day.”

“Weird?”

“Got a lot of feedback on a relationship I recently entered into.”

“Christ, did I, too,” I laugh. “All good feedback?”

“All unsolicited feedback.”

“No, really, c’mon, tell me.”

“Awful lot of Gryffindors claiming they _won the pool!_ ”

_Oh, shit_.

“And I have to say, I don’t love the idea of people betting on my romantic ventures.” She eyes me closely. “Please, for the love of Merlin, tell me you are not responsible for said gambling.”

Unpardonably melodramatic hand-to-the-chest. “Who, _me_?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not being—oh, come _on_ , Lily, I might have done something so immature like, two _years_ ago, but I promise you that this wasn’t me, in the least.”

Piercing stare. “Black, then, isn’t it?”

I’m silent.

She bursts from the table, throws up her arms.

“He’s incorrigible, alright? But harmless! He does it out of love, honest.”

She crosses her arms, juts her jaw, shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll tell him off about it, if that’s what you want.”  
  
“Oh, I’m quite capable of telling him off about it on my own.”

I bite my lip. “Yes, I know.”

She paces a second, turns on her heel. Rejoins me against the table. “Please tell me your day was equally as weird, so ignore how badly I want to punch your best mate.”

I admire her ability to restrain herself from finding Sirius immediately, making him pay for her irritation. Can’t say I’ve always had that restraint myself. “Okay, well, I did get an incredibly weird reading from Isla this morning.”

Quirks a brow. “Isla?’”

“Fornmoss.”

Exasperated eyes. “You are so _lucky_ you’re charming, and that professors like you, you are so—”

“—charming, oh, wow—”

“Whatever. Whatever!” Her fingers tighten at her forearms. She breathes in deeply. Exhales. “What kind of weird reading?”

I tuck my ankles around each other. “Okay, well we were in the middle of silent readings—meaning we’re paired off and drink amplifying tea—”

“Amplifying tea?”

“Rose petals and thyme and yarrow root and cinnamon and clove. Quite delicious, actually. It’s meant to, er, enhance spiritual power. Open your senses to the divine.” 

“Alright. Suspending my disbelief.”

“Kind of you.” I smile. “Anyway, so we drink that, and then we’re meant to touch the other person on the neck, here,” I demonstrate by pressing my hand on the back of my own neck. “And close our eyes and see whatever comes to us based on that touch.”

I watch Lily’s skepticism unravel. “And how, exactly, does that work?”

“Not sure, really. I don’t think it works, on everyone—and I think more or less everyone’s making something grand out of nothing.” I shrug. “I didn’t see anything profound, myself. When I touched Remus’ neck, I saw someone’s fingers through a dog’s fur.”

Lily’s brows concave. “And that’s significant, to Remus?”

I wish I could tell her just _how_ significant. “Er, yeah. Lupin’s had a family dog, while back, died, and Remus was rather attached.”

I watch her arms slide away from themselves, onto her legs. “And you really _saw_ that?”

“Yeah. Briefly, like a poorly-tuned telly.” I card a hand back through my hair. “But—I felt it, too, a bit. Er, the _feelings_ the image evoked for him. And I knew the memory, or the thought, or whatever it was, was complicated, and hard, though I couldn’t say exactly why or how.”

“Hm.” I can see her working through this, searching for a logical way to consume information she’s usually so eager to write-off as whimsy. “And Professor Fornmoss did one for you?”

“Sort of—she’s always divining things off of me in pair situations, because she thinks Remus has a particularly spiritual aura about him.” I laugh. “She calls him her _oracle_ , sometimes. Makes him wicked uncomfortable.”

Lily’s turned toward me now, to watch my face. “What did he see, when he touched your neck?”

“Well, he didn’t really see anything, at first.” I find myself back in the room, Fornmosses’ intense grip on Remus’ shoulder as he gripped my neck—with a gentler touch—and my body flooded, momentarily, with a flash of yellow, a current of gold. Gone just as soon as it arrived. Remus looking up into my face, with an uninhibited smile—him feeling what I’m feeling—and Fornmoss, her gleeful screech.

“But when Isl— _Fornmoss_ touched him, lending him her energy, her own sight, as it were, he said there was just light. Like a pure, yellow light. A flash of it. And Fornmoss was beside herself, she put her on top of Remus’—awkward for him, I’m sure—and she said it was filling her, too, ‘some frightening, unfathomable light.’” I add, quickly, “Her words, not mine.”

“Oh.” The syllable falls from Lily’s mouth like that same light—quietly, brightly. Her face is set free of its previous cynicism, loosened now by something I could swear is reverence. “That’s very...visceral.” She stands up from the table, faces me, a sprawl of fingers touched to her mouth, like she can’t quite figure out what she’s feeling. “No—I mean, ethereal.”

“That’s the wonderful thing about Divination, right? It’s both.” I’m astounded she hit on it so closely, considering her alleged incredulity. “Gut-level reactions—true, real sensation—and the earth, and magic—and the intersection of all three.” My awareness of her is heightened by the intense angle of her body, its strange arc toward mine—the touch without touch. “It’s like learning to swim through all the connections between humans and meaning and fate, etc, etc—and these guesses, or prophecies, or what have you, _yes_ they’re elastic, a little off-kilter, confusing, cloudy—but if you swim far enough, there’s usually a place where the water clears. And that’s where you find the little bit of truth.”

Lily releases a breath; one I didn’t realize she was holding. She drags her thumb over her lip, as though in distress. “I wish I had that kind of faith in the unknown.”

“Don’t you?” I invite her hand into mine; and this, I hold against my beating heart. “Started dating me, didn’t you?”

“But I...know you.”

“Yes,” I trail my hand down her arm, three fingers down to her elbow. And though I’ve only ever known her, I say, “But certainly nothing about... _this_...has been known, really—and maybe it’s, I dunno, _nihilistic_ to say, but—life is a real mess of the unknown, and fear, and grief, and anger—and I imagine it’s all we can do to swim until the water clears, and find—” Three fingers slide up her forearm; hand slides under hers, entwines. “A little bit of truth.”

Lily is leaned forward, against me, arm hooking round my shoulder till my weight supports her in the effort to be close. “That’s not nihilism.” When she blinks, her eyelashes brush my cheek. “That’s awfully romantic.” And then her mouth on mine, like the current of gold pouring through, over and over, unchanged.

***

_Lily_

I’m swimming in the clearest water. I can see all the way to the other side, to the sharp slope of sand that leads to shore. My body moves through greenblue; hair a squiggly red line that follows. When I reach the slope, it rises, as if to meet me. I reach out for it—

—and I’m tugged from sleep by a dip in the mattress, covers lifting, inviting in an unwelcome cold breeze. My reach for shore is a reach for a body. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” James murmurs. He shifts closer and returns the covers to their sheltering warm.

I mold to him, his chest bare and chilled and familiar. “Cold,” I sing through half-sleep, eyes closed, the only guide his breath in the dark, his fingers at my waist. I cocoon myself to the chill, prick hands over a map of shoulders and back.

“You’re warm,” he returns, voice muffled in my hair. Fingers tighten at the dip of my neck. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“ _Mmm_ ,’ I hitch a leg over his hip. “Couldn’t find...my own.”

He likes this. He smiles into my forehead.

I am sliding down to the water, dipping toes to the shelf of sand. I tell him, “As blood braids bone, the long gilded spilling bright. Tasked, perishing. Evermore: _Anima._ _Cervus_.”

“Are you talking in your sleep? Is that a riddle?”

“Mmm.” I kiss his chest. The middle of his chest. “Solved the fate-maps.” Air rushes through him. He shudders underneath. I push close against him, to protect him from this wind. “James?”

“What’s _anima cervus_?”

Another kiss. Protection. My feet are buried in sand, sinking fast. “ _Anima_ is soul, _cervus_ is... _mmm_...deer.”

He is quiet for a long time. Maybe asleep. Maybe I will find him in the clear water, swimming alongside. I am almost submerged. Someone—maybe the water—whispering. _Gilded spilling bright._

***

_James_

Between afternoon classes, me en route to Astronomy, her en route to Alchemy, I ask Lily, “So you know Latin?”

“What?”

“ _Anima_? _Cervus_?”

“Oh—that? No, I just—I looked it up. When I solved the—wait—that wasn’t a dream?”

I pinch my lips between my thumb and forefinger. I just barely avoiding running straight into a tall alabaster column; Lily grabs my hand and yanks from its path at the last second.

“What’s this glassy-eyed look?”

I stare down at her, her expression of incredulity the only thing between me and the ether. “Just thinking.”

“Okay, well how about less thinking, more walking?”

_Soul. Deer. Tasked—perishing._

I must still have a glassy-eyed look. “Potter! Are you on _drugs_? You are proper _unnerving_ me.”

I shake my head. Shake out Latin and fate and magical maths. I blink. Clear it from my eyes. “Alright. Sorry.” Breathe in deep. Refocus: On her. “Er, okay, onto less unnerving things—like you’re stealing my clothes now, apparently.”

“Not cloth _es_ , plural, don’t be dramatic.”

“Cloth _ing_.”

She can avoid my eyes in favor of the hallway, but she can’t hide the smile. “I was lonely.” Cuts her eyes sideways. “I missed you.” Shrug. “It smelled like you.”

This affects me too much—and far too quick. “Okay, and you realize now this will haunt me for the rest of the day?”

I expect chiding. Instead, she slides a smirk against my shoulder. “Maybe I want it to.”

“Evans. Be gentle with me.”

“Suppose you wouldn’t like to hear about how when I was lying there, waiting for you, I was doing an awful lot of thinking about places I wanted to feel your lips—”

“ _Evans_ , for the love of all things magical, we’re in the bloody corridor—”

She grips my arm and leans to my ear, the rush of air like a wind to my pulse, my heated skin. “Best quit calling me that or I’m going to get all turned on in the bloody _corridor._ ”

I bite the inside of my cheek to discourage any sort of sound unsuitable for a corridor. Her nails dig into my arm as she squeezes, releases. She kisses my cheek. Uses an unnecessary flare of tongue. “Good luck with those stars, love.”

And then she leaves me on my wayward path to the Astronomy tower. There’s nothing among planetary systems that could leave me so aflame. No mythology, no divination, no mapping of constellations. There’s only her, and the feeling thereafter.

***

The roof of the greenhouse is spangled in ice. I stare intently at its patterns, wondering what—if anything—I’m to glean from the design. Is this the universe, reaching out long arms of fate, brushing against me, making a myth of me?

_As blood braids bone, the long gilded spilling bright. Tasked, perishing. Evermore:_ _Anima._ _Cervus._

Peter says, “You’re being creepy.”

“I know, Pete, thanks.” A bird lands on the roof of the greenhouse. Talons scrape at the white sheen of ice.

The lack of contribution from Sirius and/or Remus piques my attention away from the roof, the ice, the bird. “Lads?”

Remus peeks up from under a furrowed brow. “Yeah.”

I try to discern his expression—which, just at first glance, feels distinctly Sirius-related. “I’ve missed the row, haven’t I?”

“Not a row.” Sirius intones, not looking up from his work.

Remus shakes his head briefly. _Don’t_.

I don’t. I spare a glance at my watch. 4:03. “ _Shit._ Late for pre-meeting meeting.” I scramble to collect my items, shove them into my bag.

Sirius asks, “That a euphemism?”

“Ha,” I bark. Glad he’s not too upset to provide obligatory innuendo.

“I’ll walk that way, with you,” Remus decides. “Byron’s looking to collaborate on Transfiguration.”

“ _Collaborate_.” Sirius echoes callously.

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it. He rises to follow me as I make for the greenhouse door.

“Dinner, lads. See you.”

Peter salutes us on our way out. Nothing from Sirius Black.

“What’s with him?” I ask as soon as we’re decently far from our friends, weaving through the outer greenhouses toward the castle.

Remus doesn’t answer right away. He trails a hand through harmless-enough-looking ivy that trickles down from the ceiling. “Think he’s having a bit of an identity crisis.”

We emerge into occupied greenhouses, crowded with clumps of students, studying, laughing, shoving each other teasingly. “I tried to have a mature conversation about...what’s between us, and he sort of, er, spiraled. I think he’s scared of what putting words to it might mean. You know. For him, and for his—for his family.”

The heaviness settles over me slowly. Sirius has never done anything quietly, especially when it comes to sticking to principles. This includes, notably, a true and unyielding disdain for his family line and their inclination toward pureblood supremacy; a brand of pride that has eaten Sirius to the core and spit him right back out.

“Since when does he care what they think?” I ask as we push through heavy oak doors back into the castle. 

“He’s so hyper-aware of what they think of him—regardless of _caring_ what they think of him. And whatever this means for him, it’s a change. Or—would be a change. And fear of that might be holding him back. Or the fear of being with—”

“You.” I finish. “You think you’re the problem.”

“Well, he hasn’t given much evidence to the contrary.”

Sirius’ Fling-Me-Off-The-Edge-And-I’ll-Figure-Out-A-Plan-From-There mentality rarely includes considering repercussions for those around him—and sometimes, in the face of such consequences, he can be unintentionally unfeeling. This I know first-hand, having been on the receiving end. There’s no worse feeling. 

“It’s stupid, really, that I got my hopes up so high.” Remus scuffs his shoe against the floor. His shoulders are slumped forward. Defeated. “I told myself not to, but it was—well. I got swept up.”

“Remus—”

“I know, I know. He’s new to it, and I’ve got to be delicate, and I’m trying, I really am.”

“It’s okay to feel shitty about it.” I say quietly. “It’s not your job to coach him through it, if he’s being a prick. He needs to consider your feelings, as well, you’re not—” I motion aimlessly, looking for a word. “You’re not just _someone_.”

There’s a beat of quiet. “He could’ve just said no—he could’ve just said, _no I don’t feel that way about you_ —and it would’ve been easier, it would’ve hurt less.” There’s a roughness to his voice now, caught on something deep, and it makes me stop him mid-hall with a hand to his arm, and find shame and tears, and eyes—blue, kind, helpless.

“Shit, Moony,” I murmur, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

He falls against me, roughly. “I’m so dumb. He’s so—”

“I know.” I feel the frantic knock of his heart against my shoulder. His arm is shaking. This is vital, earthbound feeling. This is real pain.

I hate it. And I hate more that I can’t fix it. A flare of anger at Sirius consumes me. _How could he let this happen?_

After a quiet minute, Remus dashes a hand over red eyes. I withdraw my arm. He inclines his head down the hall. “Okay.” Inhales. “Onward.”

***

_Lily_

James ducks into the Heads office twenty minutes late, and he’s not alone—Remus pokes his head in the doorway briefly to wave at me.

I smile. “Remus!”

“See you at dinner, Lily.” He slumps away, gone the next second.

I turn to James. “Everything alright?”

He collects my face between his palms. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s—Remus?” I touch his wrists.

Searching golden eyes. “I have to tell you something about him.”

“Okay.”

“Kiss me first?” He asks so nicely, so softly, like he’s asking to be excused from the dinner table so he can run to the upstairs window, watch the sun set behind the trees.

I kiss him. Beyond the trees, bleeding light. Tangerine and peach.

He comes away sweet and bright, caught between. “Okay. Remus.” He lets go of me, backs into the room. Retucks his sweater into his pants. Adjusts his belt. Settles into a seat in the Prefect audience.

“Is this about him and Sirius?”

James looks up, alarmed. “Wh—how did you know about that?”

“Um,” I shift to lean on the desk behind me. “I’ve got eyes, that’s how.”

“Well, that’s not—” he shakes his head at me. “How come you haven’t asked me about that?”

“I don’t know, hasn’t come up? And, I mean, before, it wasn’t exactly my place to ask.” I shrug. “Three days ago I was just a friend to you."

“That’s reductive. You were never just a friend.”

“Sweet of you, but what is it about Remus? We’ve got meeting here soon.”

“Right. Right.” James stands, appearing too antsy to remain seated. Shakes out his hands. “Okay, well, you recall my recent, er, late nights?”

“Yes. Well.”

He flicks his eyes to mine, then away; focuses on the tops of his hands, spread one over the other. “Well, it’s because of Remus. He’s—” A chasm of quiet. “He’s sick.”

A yarn of unease unravels in my abdomen. Discordant parts of Remus’ behavior throughout all the years I’ve been in school with him—especially the past year—line up in my mind, waiting for something to link them together, make a clear picture.

I open my mouth, close it quickly.

James is watching me. “You know this, too?”

I haven’t, not exactly—though maybe it’s just my desire to be _incorrect_ that’s holding me back from quantifying the hypothesis. A word would make it real. And I want—more than anything—for it not to be real. For everything to just be normal, for Remus to have a normal sort of sickness, something curable, like a cold.

“Maybe,” I whisper. “But I really want to be wrong.”

James rubs a hand over his face. “Then you’re probably right.”

I shut my eyes. If only shutting things out were that easy.

“How did it happen?”

“He was attacked.” His voice is a low and sweeping draft. “His father...was privy to certain information about a murder trial, and when the defendant got off, wrongfully, Mr. Lupin was very vocal about his opposition. And the man—” He swallows deftly. I stare at the agitated workings of his throat. “Wanted to punish him for telling the truth. So he attacked Remus, and...he was infected.”

Quick, hard nausea. I stretch an arm out over my stomach. “How old was he?”

He pauses long enough for me to know the answer will be upsetting. “Five.”

“Oh, _god_.”

“Yeah.”

“And you—when did you find out?”

“Second year.”

He’s lived with this for a long time. _Remus_ has lived with this for a long time. I’m sick thinking of all the hiding he’s had to do, the secret-keeping—and not to mention the disease, its violent origin, having to live in a society actively seeking to ostracize anyone inflicted—and the terrible pain of transformation, against will. That lack of autonomy. That gross, unnecessary injustice.

“ _Jesus_.” I repeat, looking up at James.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve picked a better—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m really glad you told me, and I’ve a _million_ questions, but—”

“Meeting.”

I sigh. “Meeting.”

He steps forward and grips my upper arms. “He’s okay, now, though, you don’t need to be worried about him. I—I know it sounds grim, but he’s learned to deal with it. He’s strong.”

I bite my lip. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

I push off the table and wrap my arms around him firmly. “Alright.”

***

“ _Psst._ Evans.”

I don’t look up. “Still bothering me?”

“Still.” A beat of silence. From a table next to ours, someone snickering. The soft _thump_ of parchment being thrown at a forehead or arm. “How did you know about Sirius and Remus? You said _I’ve got eyes_ , but what does that mean?”

Still don’t look up. “If I tell you, will you quit bothering me?”

“Solemnly swear.”

I exhale. Cross one leg over the other. “Remus looks at Sirius like...you look at me.”

His mouth parts into two halves of a whole.

“And,” I continue. “I saw them holding hands under the table once.”

“Huh.”

“Satisfied?”

“Huh.”

His quill is scratching a rhythm different than writing. I look at his parchment. He’s drawing the outline of an animal, antlered and noble. “Deer?”

His eyes are dark gold, now, like wheat harvested in the shade of nighttime. “Stag.”

I remember a summer afternoon when we paused on a forest path to watch a doe and her fawn, hidden in tall yellow grass. He has their eyes, now: Unblinking, unafraid. Beckoning approach.

“You’re still thinking of the fate-maps.”

He nods. “What does it mean, to you?”

I think of the fortune—which felt, upon solving, like just another thing that needed decoding. _As blood braids bone, the long gilded spilling bright. Tasked, perishing. Evermore:_ _Anima._ _Cervus_.

“It feels like it could apply to anyone, really,” I answer truthfully. “Blood and bone being fairly universal concepts, as well as light, and dying, being _tasked_ with living—and, well, souls, deers, etc. Not sure on the last note.”

James touches his sketch with a slow finger. I swallow. There is something else: A tiny pressure, pressing me forward. “I see myself in there, a bit. My Patronus charm takes the form of a doe—so, deer, soul, etc.”

He looks up at me slowly. Something new in his eyes.

“What?”

The parchment turns, slides toward me. He points at the stag. “My Patronus.”

I feel a cleft form between What I Thought I Knew and What I Have Yet To Learn. I feel washed in something cold.

“Little eerie, no?” I can tell James is straining to hide his enthusiasm. I envy him his easy belief, like the bright rush of using magic; faith in the invisible.

This is hard for me—but I _want_ to feel what he feels. I reach out. Knot his fingers between my knuckles; skin pulled tight over bone. If I squint close enough, I can almost see the roar of blood beneath. 

***

_James_

She is warm. Saying my name like something to forgive. Threading fingers through my hair. I lift my shirt from her hips; kiss each slope. Her breath leaves in waves. I want to tell her I love her. I tell her _I love your sweet thighs._ Trace the map of her legs with gentle palms. She flushes under pressing fingers, pressing tongue, body restless, yearning. I taste her center, and she gasps, I feel the flight of my own pulse, and the myth that is always remaking itself, so bright in its retellings: bodies aren’t just bodies, bodies are stars—bodies will heat until they explode. I want to tell her I love her. I tell her _You taste so good._ I am no poet. I have only my hands and her trust. Her soft calling. The pleasure and quaking and cry. I want to tell her I love her. I want to tell her I love her. I hold her till the spinning stops and the stars still and the ceiling is dark overhead. Not a sky—just a ceiling.


	9. Chapter 9

Who knows what state is in store?

If they all turn, will you run?

If you need to, keep time on me

—Fleet Foxes, “If You Need To, Keep Time On Me”

* * *

_Lily_

December slips quickly through time’s pale fingers, dappled in snow and dull cloudless skies and bone-deep cold. In and among nearly every night cooped up in the library prepping for exams, the crush of coursework, the dolling out of increasing amounts of Prefect patrol rotations—something about pre-Holidays seeming to encourage mischief-making tenfold—and the insistence of Marlene that I carve out “little times to spend with friends of old as opposed to new boyfriend,” a half-part of me is devoted, steadfastly, to a new and invigorating academic pursuit: The Study of James Potter.

Of course, the study’s been underway for months, or perhaps longer than that, perhaps years. But with all complications and tension cast off, I’m free of hesitation, free to wade past all the surface-level James'—Student James, Head Boy James, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain James, Blustery Self-Assured Marauders James—to the James beyond all that, the underneath James.

It’s a crammer on body language and habits and eccentricities and gestures and each individual smile, on the way he holds himself in different rooms, around different people, on the James who's not quite in the classroom, his neck bent forward, distracted sketches parading down the edge of his notes: long sloping limbs of trees, thin, shaded hands, deer and dogs and flowers that bleed into other flowers that bleed into suns.

It’s a study of moods, sometimes slow moving, sometimes purposeful, attitudes divulged in the lines of him or the notes of his voice or his posture; a brow pinched in grave concentration, serious effort; a finger roving constantly at the edge of jaw or along the side of the neck in anxiety or apprehension; the lethargic, antsy stretch of fingers outward, then into fists, clenched, restrained, to relay irritation, swelling, something that might simmer and dissolve, or burst, without warning, like a heart attack; gentle easy smile of uncomplicated joy; sliding loping grin of happiness stumbled upon, suddenly, a surprise; slow backward roll of shoulders and parting of lips to indicate need, affection, a wordless soundless touch; a light slip of three fingers down the back of my arm—meaning, I come to know, _I miss you_.

It’s researching the unexamined routines and practices; the furious letter writing—weekly to his parents, biweekly to some cousins, monthly to Gertie and Diedra; the unchecked, boyish glee over Quidditch; the unchecked, boyish misery over Quidditch; the inclination to mumble under his breath when on the hunt for a forgotten incantation or charm; the impatience with inadequacy, the striving high, then higher, a climb that will sometimes lead to slipping; the way he looks first thing in the morning, lovely, young, gold-eyed; the endless laying of his head in my lap so I toy with his hair; the encouragement for Peter, the patience for Sirius, the level-eyed-understanding for Remus; the cleverness of his mind, wicked, razor-sharp when it needs to be, tempered in empathy otherwise, a kindness that only comes from having seen some brutal unkindness; the wearing of cords, belted, shirt tucked in, begging to be pulled in by the beltloops; the way he looks to me, heart-first, from across a room.

It’s a crash course in the cosmos he sometimes lands in, starstruck, starry-eyed, palms full of stars. For all his solidity, feet plant so firmly on the ground, this part of him feels mythical; unmoored from the rest. It’s the part of him that believes with such ease in the future, in the tangled strings of human fate; the desperate and whimsical part that believes people are innately good, that the good will always cut through bad; the part that believes in _deer_ and _souls_ and _gilded spilling light_. This part I hold dearly, study relentlessly, irrationally, because it’s the part of him I envy the most. I think if I could just listen close enough to the thrumming of his breath as he dreams, I could try and tune myself to the frequency; to the rugged, brutal heart of a believer.

It’s a slow and curious thing, to learn this underneath James, this James that spins off under his own skin. Perhaps one day, I’ll collect my miscellaneous data, the unquantifiable findings, unwritten notes, conclusions half-come-to, and send the collection off to a scientific journal about human behavior. I’ll write to them: _Will knowing him for even a lifetime begin to be enough?_

***

_James_

Lily’s skirt falls, fanned-out, over her bent knees. She’s backing away from me, slightly, taking in what must be a look of unadulterated shellshock. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She’s backlit by a blue winter sun cutting in through a west-facing window. I’m staring, because she’s just said that prior to being with me, she hadn’t experienced what “most people would classify as an orgasm at the hand of another.” The knowledge is slipping through me slowly, like the pesky drip of a sink not all the way shut off.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

“On which part?”

I loosen my hands where they rest on her waist. They fall into the lap of her skirt like petals. “Didn’t you, er, have sex with Owen?”

“Well, yes, but not to any good end,” she’s shaking her head and, inexplicably, laughing. “Shouldn’t come as a surprise, given all I’ve told you about him, no?”

“Haven’t said _much_ about him.”

She sighs. “Suffice it to say the sex felt...like it was for him, not for me.” Her fingers spread down over mine. “Certainly may be hard for you to believe, given...well, given what I know about you...but most blokes aren’t always concerned about the experience of the girl, especially compared to their own.”

I feel a tiny burning anger at Flannigan, a tiny burning pride for _given what she knows about me_. She’s right. The idea of unequitable gratification would never cross my mind. In fact, it would upset me. Especially—well, exclusively—when she’s the girl in question.

She’s looking at me now with anxious eyes. “What was it like with the other girls that you’ve—been with?”

“Um,” I shift on the couch, unfolding one of my legs so that it squeezes past her. “Well, with either of them, er, there was never any real—” I swallow. “It’s hard to know, I guess. I was never savvy or mature enough to talk about it, or ask if they were having...er, you know.”

I meet her eyes and she’s looking back, and there’s the knowledge of all the _you knows_ shared between us, grand and small an in-between and remarkable, each. “It’s always felt easy, with you,” she whispers. Her eyes are some shade of green I haven’t seen yet, a green slipped gently from the rainy moss of a well-watered forest. There’s something she’s saying without saying it. “It’s always felt...really good.”

“Really _very_ good,” I revise, hands reaching back through her hair, so she sways against me with a rush of air through her mouth, a mouth I take without amending. Her arms circle my waist, spread up under my sweater, body relaxing into mine slowly, purposefully. We are well-practiced at the _really very good_ , at the slowsoft kisses and unselfconscious yearning, lethargic and urgent all at once. 

Lily leans away. Her hands have traveled to the middle of my back, come to a rest between my shoulder blades. She feels the bones underneath and holds my eyes in hers. My heart in hers. She asks, “Do you think it’s like this, for other people?”

A torrent of heady, golden light fills every empty room inside my body. “No,” I answer; persuade my heart a lesser thrum. “No, I don’t think it is.”

***

_Lily_

“Hi, _hi_ , sorry I’m late,” I scramble into the chair opposite Dorcas.

She shoots me a bemused look. “I’m not going to Marlene you, Lils, calm down.”

I laugh, nervously, pulling my hair back into a twist and reaching into my bag for notes and ink and quill. “How’re you?"

“ _Belgh_. You wouldn’t believe the pressure I’m under, Astronomy-wise. Can we get this done in under, say, an hour?”

“Yeah, of course, shouldn’t take long,” I assure, flipping rapidly through _The Arbitration of Elements_ by one Mortimor Duluth, 18th-century Alchemist. “We’re fairly solid on it already, no?”

“You’re right.”

“And I’m sorry about Astronomy, seems brutal. James’ been spewing about it nonstop.”

“Hey, he’s been _spewing_ about it _nonstop_?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Absolutely _never_ will I leave you alone.”

I clip my response at its source, distracted quickly by a hunched figure emerging from a nearby stack—it’s a girl I recognize, a third year Slytherin, Sophie Reynolds. I find that she’s crying, silently, shoulders shaking. Someone rushes up behind her, takes her by the arm, murmurs something gentle in her ear before leading her off in the opposite direction.

“Awful godamn tragedy.”

“What?” I ask, turning to Dorcas, who’s looking at the retreating figures with a face full of sympathy. “What’s happened?”

“Oh, shit, you didn’t hear?” she says, uneasily. “Her parents were, um, killed.”

“ _Killed_?”

“Yeah. Death Eaters.”

“ _Gods_ _._ ”

Dorcas shifts in her seat, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Blood traitors, I guess. Her mum’s a Delaney, and she married, y’know ‘out of her own,’ according to what’s his fuck and that pack of loathsome goons.”

My mind reels. News of killings like this shouldn't surprise me—they’re splashed all over the _Prophet_ , more and more each day, alongside disappearances and kidnappings and un-pinned robberies and sightings of black skull clouds dissolving into thin air—but to witness someone so affected by an attack, so close to home, a _student_ , at that, just a young girl—feels different. Excruciatingly, unavoidably real.

“It’s getting to be a real fucking mess, alright,” Dorcas intones, mirthlessly. 

I’m thinking of poor Sophie Reynolds, her parents dying what probably wasn’t a quick or kind death. I shudder just to think of Sophie having to deal with that—and take exams? It seems senseless. Ludicrous, really. “Gods,” I laugh, without humor, shortly. “Alchemy seems so fucking unimportant.”

“Yeah,” Dorcas shakes her head. “Do you think—” she closes her mouth, then opens it again. “Do you think it’s going to be up to us?”

“Up to us?”

She shrugs. “To fight. Join the Order.”

A sliver of fear spirals along my spine. “You think the Order is actually real?”

“Yes, _Jesus_ , that’s the only thing that makes me feel not just relentlessly miserable,” she says, leaning closer to me on the table, elbows spread out toward me. “I know we are just full-on underage witches, but I think we might be _the last great hope_. I’m dead serious, Lils. I’ve heard—well, this is coming a bit from Doyle, who probably heard it from O’Connor, who is probably a piece of shit—but I’ve heard the Order is _actively recruiting_ fresh grads.”

“Fresh grads,” I echo. “Marched right off to death.”

“Well,” she swallows, retreats on her forearms. “I’d rather die fully-educated than not acing this godamn test of the baser elements.” She reaches for her own textbook, cracks it open.

I stare at the fluttering pages, imagining the future like a petrifying fog that settles over a dark forest of skeletal trees. To walk, willingly, into such a forest—would require tremendous amounts of idiocy and pluck. Young, angry hearts.

***

When I duck through the entryway into the heads quarters later that night, I entirely expect James to be off on patrol and am in fact quite looking forward to the alone time, and being able to contemplate the damning unknown of the future without having to talk about it. This expectation, as it turns out, is immediately shattered. I’m not four feet into the room when I have to stop where I stand, finding not just James in the common room, after all, but also Sirius, and Remus, and Peter.

I am, arguably, dumbstruck. “Um—hello?”

James leaps up from his half-lean on the arm of the couch, rushing toward me. “Okay, before you worry, I got Barnes to cover my patrol, and everything’s fine.”

I accept his kiss on the cheek, though my confusion mounts rather than subsides. I peer around him, take in the sight of Peter cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, grinning up at me amicably; Sirius sprawled quite leisurely down the length of the couch, lanky figure barely leaving room for Remus, who’s tucked in at the end, looking at me in apology, or else reassurance.

“Er,” I say stupidly. “How did they get in here?”

For all the privilege private heads quarters afford, it does not allow outside guests, and even I can’t even begin to imagine the complicated magic finding a loophole in the portrait/password deadlock would require. “Um,” James pulls at his collar, and I can tell he’s nervous, maybe a little bit scared. His voice is edging a bit higher than usual. “That...will be explained, soon, I promise.”

I feel my eyebrows arching inward, pulse skittish at my neck. I swallow. Awkwardly readjust the textbook I’ve clutched in my arms. “Is this...some sort of weird Marauder ritual? Like, I’m to be the sacrifice?”

“Yes _precisely_ ,” Sirius confirms from his lazy recline. “We need your blood to stay boys forever.”

James turns to give Sirius a sharp look, then swivels back to me. “No blood. No ritual.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, gently. “I know this is kind of a sneak attack, but, er—would you sit down, and just hear us out?”

It’s near impossible to feel uneasy looking into his gold eyes, bright with affection, his fingers tracing an unseen pattern. “Alright.”

“Brilliant.” He kisses my cheek, again, and I can tell he wants to kiss my mouth, because he’s right there, and he pauses, briefly, inhales—but then he pulls away, perhaps considering we’ve an audience. He releases me, reluctant. “You’ll sit?”

I sweep a glance over the other Marauders, landing on Peter’s face, the look of eagerness stretched across it. I step past him to the high-backed armchair and set my bag, book, and outer robes on the ground next to it. I sit, uneasy, feeling a bit like I’m about to be told a deep and deadly secret.

I watch as Remus spares a look to James, who has reposted at the arm of the couch. James looks back at him, and something is passed between them, some signal I can’t interpret, don’t recognize. I imagine they’ve all spent so long in each other’s close company that they read one another very well, with incredible accuracy. I’ve witnessed this firsthand, of course, over the past weeks, time spent often in the company of the group—and am, in fact, envious of the closeness, that level of intimacy. Which is foolish, because I’ve got intimate friendships of my own.

But there’s something about these four boys, the intensity of their bond to one another; a bond that speak less of friendship and more of brotherhood, of deep-rooted, everlasting comradery, loyalty and love so intrinsic to their connection that if one single strand of the four came unraveled, the tree of them would mold and die, its source of life cut out. It’s a live-or-die friendship.

Remus turns to me, smiles in his gentle, self-effacing way, and the _live or die_ feeling falls away. “I know this is a bit weird, but there’s some things James left out when he—er, told you about my—you know the whole, erm, werewolf situation.”

My mind scrambles to think what could have possibly been left out, landing on all sorts of outlandish possibilities, most of which include something even worse for Remus, and his illness, and his misfortune. But I do my best to construct my facial expression into one free of fear, filled instead with empathy.

“Okay,” I say, and nod for him to go on.

“Well, as you might guess, my...it’s quite painful, and rather a mess in terms of my control over myself. Thankfully there’s wolfsbane, which helps me stay in my own head, for the most part, when transformed, but it’s not foolproof—there’s, er, often complications.”

I swallow, slightly, trying very hard not to imagine the horror of his situation. I think of the cut down James’ face the night we made up. I squeeze my ankles together, focus on the sensation of socks digging into my skin.

“When I came to Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore was sympathetic to my situation and set up accommodations for the monthly absences,” he continues. “And for a while, that was okay, but once I became closer friends with—” he motions to the Marauders. “This lot, it became hard to come up with excuses that made sense.”

“Plus he’s a shit liar,” Sirius adds kindly.

Remus gives him a look before continuing. “And so, eventually, second year, James sort of sat me down and asked me, point-blank, about it, he’d figured it out because of, well—”

“—moon cycles,” James says.

“Yes, that, and, turns out, I’m a shit liar.”

There’s a general laugh among the four, and I start at the sudden, easy sound of it, looking down at Peter, staring at the neat tuck of his tie into his collar. I focus on the gold-and-maroon stripes, their bold stay against the dull grey of the uniform sweater.

Remus goes on. “And so after that, wasn’t long before Sirius and Peter knew, and they all wanted to, um, help.”

I look up. “Help?”

“I didn’t think he should have to go through that alone.” I look to James, who’s staring intently at his feet, jaw tense, voice low. “Seemed like a horribly lonely, awful thing. Didn’t feel right to have a friend experience that, and not at least try to be there, and help, if we could.”

“As smashing as company sounded, it wasn’t entirely realistic,” Remus leans his elbows and forearms down on his legs. “Given I’d likely tear them all to pieces if they were around me when I changed.”

Sirius sits up on the couch, grins at me, shakes a restless hand through long inky hair. “We had to do some creative problem solving.” His eyes glitter like jewels. “Evans, you’re about to be so impressed with us.”

“Or very cross,” James amends, and I see that he’s now buried his face between hands.

I look to Remus, who clasps his hands together and gestures them toward me. “You’re familiar with Animagi?”

The swell of reaction that bombards me is so powerful that I stand up without even realizing I’ve moved. One second I’m seated, the next I’m standing; swaying with the force of my rising, four pairs of eyes glued to me in various mixtures of concern and surprise—or, in Sirius’ case, complete satisfaction.

I stare at them, stupidly, unable to comprehend what I assume I’m about to have to comprehend. I bring a hand to my throat, absently, frantically flipping through my mental recall of the process of becoming an Animagus, the particular skill, practice, and patience it requires—and, beyond that, the _intensely_ small margin of success in even full-grown wizards and witches.

“Very complicated, dangerous magic,” I whisper.

“We went about it rather fearlessly,” James says. “With no guidance.” I look at him, frightened. “It took three years, anyway.” He looks back, desperate. “Very complicated and dangerous magic.”

I feel the hollow of my throat dry out, like some cold and thankless wind ripped me open. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re Animagi, Lily,” Peter offers, perhaps truly thinking I need to be told this. He looks very young to me, quite suddenly, and in all of an instant I can’t help but be uncomfortably aware of how young they all are; boys, playacting men.

 _We’re Animagi, Lily_. It echoes through my head like a dull thud. I feel the blood run from my cheeks.

“But—” I begin, but there’s no _but_. I am seized by something fearful and gigantic and painful, like being submerged in freezing water.

I feel their expectant eyes. I inhale deeply. Talk myself into staying calm. I return to my seat, tuck my legs behind me as I sit. Have to consciously remove the worried hand from my throat. I nod gently, mostly to assure myself I can still feel okay. “And—all of you?”

Sirius and James nod in tandem. I slide a hand onto the arm of the chair, look at its intricate pink-and-green embroidery, forming tiny links of color where the pinned fabric meets. My nails are getting a little long. Could stand a cutting. I nod again. Self-reassurance. I look back up at the boys.

James looks like he’s ready to launch himself from the edge of the couch, catch me if I swoon. But what I’m not going to do is swoon. I’m going to keep listening. “Dumbledore knows?”

“No,” Sirius says. “He’s—he’d be liable, if he knew. Given we’re hellishly unregistered. Rather underage.”

I swallow this down. Save those questions for later. “And every month you—?”

“Use the map to make sure hall’s clear, bring the cloak, leave through the passage, join Moony at the shack,” Peter gushes, rapidly, in a clear effort to be helpful, though the speech serves mainly to confuse me further.

“Lots of words in there I don’t understand,” I tell him, softly, apologetically.

He nods. “Right. Sorry. Erm,” he twists his body, reaches for a piece of parchment lying not far from him on the ground. He rises, hands it to me. “Okay: Map.”

I handle the piece of paper carefully. It’s folded complexly, four or five times, two folds meeting in the center. As for its map-like qualities: None at all. The parchment is blank.

I look up at Peter, confused. He blanches, taps his wand to the paper, and intones clearly: “ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_.”

A design begins unraveling down the surface of the parchment. First, an ornate banner, laced in two Latin words: _Tinerarium Maraudentium._ Then, a block of lavish script:

_Messrs_

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

_are proud to present_

And at the very center of the page is a meticulous sprawl of the castle’s exterior, resplendent in its miniature detail. Penned in the shaded interior:

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

I spare an upward glance to the Marauders in question. “What is it?” I ask, more than a little afraid to find out—though I can’t stop, or even help, an underlying bite of curiosity.

“Go on,” Sirius nods, looking far too content. “Open it.”

Against my better judgement, I unfold the parchment. Inside, I find the map.

It’s an impossibly exhaustive blueprint of the school: right down to individual toilet stalls, individual four-posters in individual dormitories. Not only does it show every classroom, every hallway, and every corner of Hogwarts, but also every inch of the grounds, and surrounding locale, as well some rather unfamiliar locations within the walls of the castle—several of which boast to be secret passages.

Perhaps even more astonishing—or else, disconcerting—are the hundreds of tiny roving footprints and banners of identification floating alongside, tuckering about the mock-castle like ants. Except they’re not ants—they’re undeniably meant to signify _people_. I scan the wings furiously, till I land on the heads quarters and find precisely what I’m looking for: _James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, Lily Evans_.

Five sets of unmoving footprints.

Unfortunately for my own principles, my primary reaction is envy. The document in my hands is, without a single doubt, the product of painstaking skill, meticulous attention to detail, a sophisticated and finnicky magic. It’s a masterpiece. An abomination of personal privacy, sure—but, irrefutably, a masterpiece.

“You made this?”

“Group effort,” Sirius says.

“James and Remus did it, mostly,” Peter amends. “Though I did the script, I’m aces at calligraphy charms.”

“This goes against every I stand for, ethically,” I murmur. I glance from the tiny map versions of us, stationary footprints up to the living, breathing creators. Poised on the precipice of greatness. I can hardly breathe for my strange mixture of pride and wonder. “How long did this take?”

“Years,” Remus says. “Only really finished up the final touches the last few months.”

“And it’s, what, Homonculous? To track movement?”

James flashes me a smile, but Sirius shudders. “Nasty tricky charm. Very hard to pin down to the page.”

“What if you lost it?” I wonder. “Someone else picks it up—how have you not been expelled for this?”

Peter grins at me. He taps the parchment again, says, “ _mischief managed_ ,” and the map and ink and moving footprints dissolve before my eyes, the paper folding itself inward till I’m left with only blank parchment.

“Bloody hell,” I breathe out. “So this is how you manage to sneak out, er, during—?”

“Well that, and the cloak.” Peter takes the map, sits back down in the front of the couch.

I pinch my nose between my fingers. “Cloak. Right.”

Sirius leaves the couch, bends over a chair near the table, and retrieves a spill of silvery fabric that seems to sparkle without light. The cloak, I presume. Sirius spins the fabric around his body, and then—well, his body disappears.

A laugh bubbles up from my throat of its own accord. “Of course! Why not! You’ve got an invisibility cloak!”

Beaming down at his not-there torso and legs, Sirius says, “fetching, isn’t it?”

“I don’t suppose this was acquired through legal means.”

“Actually, it’s mine.” This comes from James, who sounds almost bashful. He runs a nervous hand around his neck. “Family heirloom.”

“Family _heirloom_?”

“Jamsie never mentioned his relation to the illustrious Peverell line, eh?” Sirius twirls the invisibility cloak off his body, tosses it carelessly back on the table. “Figured that’s how he got you into bed in the first place.”

“Padfoot, you _fucking_ dolt—”

I barely hear the thud of James’ foot against Sirius’ leg. I’m jolting through my interactions with the Potter family, straining for any circumstance in which James, or his parents, for that matter, might have mentioned being related to the fabled Peverells. I don’t doubt the sincerity of Sirius’ statement—disregarding the saucy jab—because the strength of the magical blood in the Potter family alone is renowned, their prestige, wealth, and power something not uneasily gleaned, even for someone so Muggle-born as myself. This is partly thanks, I’m sure, to James’ own spouting of the information as a preteen, some early and misdirected attempt to impress.

I shake thoughts of pureblood lineage from my head and am up on my feet again, this time pacing the length of the common room, hands pinned to each opposite elbow, arms bound across my stomach. My head is whirl of information. All of it difficult to process; all of it unthinkable. Impossibly reckless. Unimaginably irresponsible.

“Can we circle back, for a moment, to the illegal Animagi business?”

James asks, “What do you want to know?”

“What’s yours?”

He pauses, just for a second. “Stag.”

I stare. “Deer?”

Behind his eyes, a prism of light. “Deer.”

“I’m a _dog_ ,” Sirius cuts in, grinning wide.

“Rat.” Peter raises his hand.

I quit pacing near the empty fireplace. “ _Moony_ ,” I say, pointing to Remus. He nods. “Wormtail,” to Peter, “Padfoot,” to Sirius, and “Prongs,” to James. “Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers.” I add, drily. How carelessly self-assured they are in their own abilities, how blindly faithful in one another. Tragic and beautiful and, objectively, melodramatic.

Remus laughs. “It’s all a bit pomp and circumstance, I’ll give you that.”

I breathe in deeply. I feel as though I’ve run miles and miles and just only now discovered I’ve been running in circles. Right back where I began.

“Are you going to give us detention?” Peter asks, and I don’t think he’s joking.

“No,” I say, sighing. “But I am a bit interested in shaking you all by the collective collar and admonishing you for all this stupid bravery.”

“I’m going to take the _bravery_ bit and run,” Sirius proclaims, standing up wildly. I’m surprised when he approaches and reaches toward me, grasps my hand, turns it over solemnly in his own. “Listen, I'll say this as lightly as I can, although it’s actually very grave indeed.”  
  
“Okay,” I say, heart in throat.

“You’ve been let in on the inner-circle by virtue of you might be smarter than all of us combined,” he stares at me intently, voice taking on an earnest tone I’ve not heard from him, before. “If there’s to be some sort of squabble over who’s good and who’s bad, y’know, _out there_ , I would be foolish not to want you on my side. I’ve watched you duel just for practice and quite nearly pissed my pants. Statistically, I think, as well as emotionally, if you will, you're person most likely to survive an actual defense against the dark arts scenario.”

“Sirius, that’s really—”

“I mean it, Evans,” he squeezes my hand. Releases it. “Welcome to the club.”

My heart batters in my chest, because I haven’t heard that many kind or genuine words from Sirius Black perhaps for all the time I’ve known him, and though he can be a prick and a tease and a taunt, he’s got something in the core of him that hurts, I see it in his eyes; a part of him that's known the violent poison waiting in the _out there_.

I want to say something to him, like, _I’m sorry_ , or _you’re a good person_ , but then James is standing up from the couch and saying, “Alright, pals, maybe—?”

“Yeah, let’s get food.” Remus nods, standing up and offering me a kindhearted smile. I remember, suddenly, James telling what he’d seen while touching Remus’ neck in Divination: someone’s fingers through the fur of a dog. _Padfoot_.

I begin, “Remus,” but he just shakes his head at me. As if all the pain in the world could be on his shoulders and he’d still say, _no, let me carry it_. 

Peter follows as Sirius and Remus head for the entrance, invisibility cloak swept up from the table. He walks backward for a moment, inclines his head at me. “We didn’t get to choose our transformations, just so you know. I wouldn’t have _picked_ a rodent.”

“Rats are incredibly intelligent creatures,” I respond, smiling.

He smiles back. “Alright. Hey, thanks.”

And then the three of them are gone and I’m left with the boy who started it all. Tall handsome owner of horn-rimmed glasses and a foolish quick-moving heart. Splendid hands. Beautiful eyes. He’s staring at me with those eyes, anxious for some kind of a comment, or perhaps he thinks I’m going to scream, or cry, or shake him by the shoulders until he comes to terms with all he’s done wrong.

At any given moment in our timeline I might have done all of these things, for a variety of reasons. But now I just say, “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know.”

“It’s overwhelming.”

“I know,” he says, again, sighing, upset. “And I’m sorry if this was too much, I just thought it would be good to get it all out in the open, so you could know, and so—”

Having strode toward him and having taken his face in my hands, I cut him off with a kiss, a deep kiss, windblown. “I think your reckless band is rather remarkable,” I admit, breathlessly. “And you’ve broken every rule, certainly, but I can hardly chastise the reason.” I trace a thumb over his lower lip. His hands flatten against my back. “And I’m feeling like an amateur witch, now, compared to all you’ve managed to accomplish outside of class, on your own.”

“ _Amateur_ ,” he scoffs, pulling me closer. “You heard Black—you’re worth more than the lot of us combined and stuffed for spells.”

My chest pounds ferociously with the beat of my heart; an irrational devotion pours through me. “I’m shaking,” I observe, watch the wobble of my hand near his cheek.

His brow furrows, a hand of his clutching mine. Steadying. “Okay?”

 _If you left me I would melt through the cracks of floorboards, useless._ I am frightened by the density of my feelings for him. The tug of illogical need. The blast of my ineptitude to think straight, my foolish teenage whimsy, all the heat and the break of blood inside my body.

Perhaps, this feeling, in the face of all other unknowns, is a necessary failsafe; something I can hold onto when all else slips through my fingers. I say, “I’m full of things I can’t begin to dissect.”

“What, like heart, lungs, pancreas?”

I laugh and exhale and kiss him hard, angry with myself and my inability to say something as simple as _I love you._ I am a slow swimmer. I have not reached the shore. “I’m useless,” I vow against his mouth. “I’m a shitty Gryffindor. I’ve never broken a rule.”

His laughter is a throat-sound and a jumbling of tongues, our hands a sweaty tangle at his cheek. “If you want to break a rule, Lily, I can help you with that,” he grins, kisses my cheeks and my lips and my nose and my hair and my chin. “All you have to do is ask.”

***

_James_

“Whatever happened to you wanting to have a professional meeting about our relationship?”

We’re tangled atop covers, attempting, in Lily’s words, a “post-week de-stress nap _.”_ It’s the Friday before pre-holiday exams and there hasn’t been a single second to either de-stress or nap or do much of anything besides study, for that matter.

“I very much forgot about that,” she admits, now, fingers feathering gently through my hair, sending swathes of warmth down my spine.

My head is rather pleasantly cradled against her breasts, legs threaded through hers. “I’ve never heard of you forgetting about a single thing in your life,” I say, slipping a hand under the waistband of her sweatpants, fingers sprawling hip-skin. “You’ve a terrifyingly good memory.”

“Maybe whatever I wanted to talk about worked itself out.”

Her bedroom takes on a grey-blue tone, one window curtain fully drawn and the other half-drawn, making a sort of artificial afternoon shade. “What is it you would have said?”

Her lips edge my forehead. Goosebumps along the plane of my neck. She sighs, then says, “That just because we were going to be dating each other didn’t mean I was going to give up my identity as an individual, or that I wasn’t going to continue focusing very seriously on school, and being a Head, and that I couldn’t go about spending every second of my time with you, like in summer.”

I shelve my smile at her collarbone. “And it all worked itself out?”

“Well, not really, it all rather went to shit, I’d say.”

“Went to _shit_?”

“Yes,” she affirms, fingers spreading along the back of my neck, twirling strands of hair into little loops. “I suppose I’ve retained my identity as an individual and dedicated student and Head, but, alas, I’ve really taken to spending every second of my time with you.” I laugh and look up at her from my precarious vantage point, head pillowed on her chest. She arches her neck so she can kiss me, stupidly sweet, soft. She releases my lips and asks, a note of apprehension coloring her voice, “Do you think we spend too much time together?”

I knit my eyebrows together and shake my head vehemently. “I, for one, have a lot of time to make up for. Maybe six or so years from now we could have a weekend apart.”

Her laugh is bright. “Marlene is going to be really upset about that.”

“Oh, Marlene can hang out with us while we neck, I don’t care.” I pause, then add, “Do _you_ think we spend too much time together?”

“No,” she says, sighing. “I’m grossly besotted.”

“Grossly.” I close my eyes and press my lips to the skin above collarbones.

“It’s a compliment, Potter. I like you very much. I think of you often when you’re not around.”

A thrill runs through me and I crane upward, kiss underneath her chin. “If you don’t stop saying these affectionate things I’m going to start crying, or get hard, or possibly both at the same time.”

She cranes her mouth toward mine and the possibility of either reaction remains viable, given the sugary warmth of her lips and the feeling of her body all along mine and the knowledge that she _likes me very much_.

After a minute, she tucks her chin back to the top of my head, exhales appreciatively. “There’s something else I would’ve said.” Our socked feet are a jumble at the end of the bed. “I would’ve said that for all my fixation on _combustion_ , I don’t think we’re flammable. I think we balance each other, well.”

“Yes,” I agree, adamantly, a hand trailing up the front of her sleeveless-white-something-soft-and-see-through top, slowly enough to receive her low moan. “Well-balanced. Partners.” I shift my body upward, now, till we’re eye-to-eye. Her hands lift from my hair and rest below my neck. “You’re aces at Herbology, I’m always topping your Dark Arts scores. Equality.”

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” she cries, but she’s gathering my shirt in fists, pulling me closer, kissing me.

I smirk into her lips. “Don’t you wanna know what I would’ve said at this meeting? Professional? Over tea? Fully clothed?”

She rolls her eyes, spreading her hands down my shirt. “Do tell.”

“I would’ve said, please don’t call me ‘sweetie.’ It’s what Mum calls dad when she’s cross.”

Her hands are slipping under my shirt, now, and downward, edging the sensitive area just along my waist. “That’s a real bummer, actually,” she says. “I was _just_ about to call you sweetie.”

A hand slips past the elastic waist of my pants. My legs tense and I swallow, hard. She presses her mouth softly just along my lower lip because she’s trying to murder me, and she knows it’s the perfect crime. “What am I _allowed_ to call you?”

“James Potter, only.”

“Only.” Her fingers find an exceptionally excited section of my anatomy; take a soft hold.

I stand my ground. “Or, Head Boy. Or—okay, you can call me _sir_.”

She finds this immensely amusing and isn’t afraid to tell me so with a sort of jerking motion that causes my throat to tilt open, an embarrassingly eager groan falling into her mouth from mine. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” she says, drawing her tongue across my jaw. “I’m only going to call you _sweetie_ if you don’t take that back.”

"Okay, okay, fine," I give in, given her hand and its slow up-and-down agenda under my pants, an agenda that makes it difficult to maintain any kind of composure. "You can call me lover, if you're so inclined."

She scoffs and takes my tongue between her teeth and pushes her thumb over the head of my cock and I feel my thighs rattles into hers, and she smirks; all-powerful. I drag a hand up and under her shirt, feeling the warmth between breasts, and she whines, taking a long, clutching trip down my length. “How about,” she murmurs. “I call you Jimmy.”

“ _No_ ,” I growl, and her wrist jerks, fingers tightening around me. “My _great uncles_ call me that.”

“You have multiple great uncles?” she’s laughing, a bit, and the thought of any of my great uncles in this moment is impossibly unwelcome given the part of me sliding through her fingers.

“Can we not—” I break off, a strangled sort of breathy moan leaving me, “ _not_ talk about—”

Lily retreats entirely now, hand sliding out from my pants as she sits up, pushes me onto my back, and pulls my sweatpants down to my knees, the unfortunate evidence of her ministrations borne for all the world to see. She rubs her lips together. She pushes at my knees impatiently till I get her drift and sit up against the headboard as she climbs over me, smiling.

“I never realized you have such a fixation on you are and are not called,” she says, pulling her shirt down so she effectively spills right out. I suck in a breath. With a hand on the back of my neck she encourages me face-first into bare tits, and seems, for a second, to agree with my immediate attentions, fingers and lips and tongue and all; she hums approvingly. But then she tips my chin up and away, asking, “What do I usually call you?”

Now her hand is back where it began, and this sight—loose breasts and pink cheeks and hair running along her face in wisps—is brutal on my senses. I release an unsteady breath. “Well,” I begin, uneasily. “On regular days, you just say ‘James,’ which is, of course, my Christian name.” She rolls her eyes and increases fingers-on-cock momentum, seriously and rapidly enough that I have to wiggle in frustration, readjust my hips beneath me. “And sometimes, you say it with a rather condescending, _you’re stupider than me and I’m going to tell you why_ sort of tone, which is actually rather endearing—and of course there’s when you’re half-asleep, that’s a wonderful way to hear it, and— _oh_ —” an involuntary gasp erupts because she’s gone and touched her lips down onto me. “ _Jesus_.”

She releases me and looks up, nonplussed. “And?”

I stare at her. She’s incorrigible. “And, um,” I continue, though I am inoperable, basically, inexorably unstable, buzzing; my head a foggy pathetic mess of nothing but the feeling of her fingers sailing down, yanking up, pausing; repeating. “You call me Potter more often than I think you’re aware—force of habit, I, er, assume.”

With a smirk, and a mouthed _Potter_ , she bears down on me with ferocious enthusiasm, and I clench my jaw and let my head fall against the headboard and cast up a prayer to any deity undignified enough to be overseeing such a sight. Time has now taken on a very train-has-left-the-station sensation and though I am ill-prepared to do any sort of embarrassing thing to the back of Lily’s throat, it’s very much happening and I am left only to my groans as I stare in disorderly gratification and horror as she sucks me right up to the verifiable point of no return—a moment in which she comes up for air, asking, “Anything else?”

My lungs are heaving. “Sometimes, when you’re really uninhibited,” I breathe, unable to look away from her mouth. “You call me baby.” She blinks, slowly. “And that usually, just, immediately makes me come.”

The subject is sore because I am poised quite firmly on an exact such precipice. I feel myself wince as she rubs an infuriatingly lone finger over my tip, all the way down; and she’s leaning in, face along my face, lips at my ear. “Would you come in my mouth, if I asked nicely, _baby_?”

The effect of this, irreversible: She’s back between my legs and I reach out, cradle her head in my palm, issuing a frantic, “ _Lils_ —” but she’s got her lips full of prick and I scramble for her hand where it lays on my thigh, threading our fingers together, hurled into a real high speed chase between what feels like an exceptionally depraved desire and the undeniable truth that I have avoided this blowjob for many months and now that it’s here it’s better than I could have possibly imagined and the echo of _baby_ knocks around like a shot of ecstasy through my skull and I’ve barely had time to contemplate what’s about to happen before I hear my own stifled cry and feel the jolt of familiar exertion and am spilling, uneventfully, awash in painful heat; her tongue skimming this undoing, warmly, wetly, a sound of pleasure undeniably her own assailing my ears—and as if this isn’t enough, she’s got to go and swallow, exaggeratedly, eyes flicking up to mine, as if to say, _are you watching?_

Then she leans up, shifting backwards on bent knees, and, eyes still on mine, wipes delicately at her mouth with one hand.

I have to cover my face in my hands and groan for all my embarrassment.

She scrambles back on top of me, fingers pulling mine off, and her mouth, so recently my downfall, presses endearingly to mine; and I can only sigh into her, unwilling—possibly ever—to let her go. She slows, breathes in deep, finds me with closed eyes. A finger traces from cheek to jaw. “Are you angry with me?”

I open my eyes and say, “No, Lils— _angry_?”

She bites her lower lip. “I just wanted to try.”

“I—” I kiss her, then tear away and shake my head and laugh. “You’re so—I can’t— _try_. Try, she says!”

“James,” she groans, almost pouting, red-cheeked and bright-eyed and exquisite, pressed into me, swollen-lipped.

I round my fingers at her hips. “You’re unbelievable. You’re beautiful.” I lean my head back. “I’m unworthy.”

Her exhale is immense. Satisfied. She tugs on my hand, brings it under her own waistband, between her legs. “But look how much _I_ enjoyed it,” she grins, sinking down onto my fingers. I crane my neck for her lips, but she backs away.

“Let me taste you,” I beg.

“Let you,” she muses, flopping off of me, onto her back, keeping my eyes as she maneuvers completely out of her pants, grappling for my hands, pulling me down. “Baby, I _insist_.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Can’t quite explain how the length of these chapters continues to increase, but this fic (as I’m sure you’ve noticed) is about to be maybe double the length of Summer Girl! I am tempted to take this story through graduation and then commence on a third about life post-Hogwarts pre-you-know-what??? That’s not a solid for sure thing but I’m very much thinking of it. Trilogy has a nice ring to it! Anyway. Sorry for the long note. Grateful for everyone reading/reviewing. I’m awful at responding, but I promise I read every single one and smile stupidly while doing so. 
> 
> PS: I think I’m going to start posting re: updates on my tumblr (@myfinestworkyet) if you have any inclination to follow me there.

10

Let winter break  
Let it burn 'til I see you again  
I will be here with you  
Just like I told you I would

—London Grammar, “Rooting For You”

* * *

_Lily_

“Reckon I’m gonna get an ear pierced.” Sirius announces, gathering his black hair into a sort of knot at the back of his head, securing the tangle of strands with a leather band from his wrist.

“I pierced Mary’s ears, third year,” I say whilst stirring a spoonful of cream into my coffee. “You get me an apple slice and a needle, and I can make that happen for you.”

“Right on, Evans,” he grins. His chin is dappled in scrappy half-beard, something denser than his usual careless stubble. It’s possible he’s trying to grow a mustache, as well, the hair a bit more concentrated over his upper lip. “Surprisingly positive response.”

“And if you really want to lean into the punk rock, you could smudge a little eyeliner, just so, under the eye, and at the corners.” I indicate where I mean with a finger near my own eye. I squint at him, slightly. “I think you’d look good with that, actually.”

“Brilliant, leaning _in_ , yes,” he nods vehemently. “Because I’ve got, I can’t stress enough, a _load_ of scuffed-up engineer boots.”

“Are you two flirting? I’m not paying close enough attention.”

James isn’t paying attention at all, really, having set in intently on a tall stack of syruped-buttermilk cakes. The three of us are convened at a booth in Ravens, the diner pleasantly frothed up for the holidays, decked in garlands and crisscrossing strands of multicolored lights, green wreaths with red ribbons tacked along the walls. We’d arrived in Dedham the day before for the two-week winter holidays, Sirius being the Potter’s guest of honor through Christmas day, when he’d become a problem for the Lupins till the new year.

Sirius answers, “We’re full-on about to kiss, mate.”

Tess slinks up to our table with two plates of sausage and biscuit and eggs, sliding one down for Sirius, one for me. Her perky blonde hair is tied off with a flippy candy-cane ribbon. She spares me an electrifying smile, prattling, “Dunno where you’re collecting all these cheeky lads, Lilypad, but I’ll be needing the longitude and latitude of the locale, if you’re keen to provide.”

“Actually,” Sirius chimes in, pointing at her with his fork. “Exact coordinates are _famously_ unknown.”

Tess says, “alright, then, love,” eyes sparkling mercilessly at him even as she wiggles away.

“Lilypad?” James asks, grinning at me sideways.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. We can just slide right over that one.”

“On the contrary, I think we ought to turn that one over, and sort of _needle_ through it—”

“Can I have just a little bite of those?” I interrupt, indicating his hotcakes. “Just a corner.”

He fork-and-knives me off a corner; I kiss his cheek and squeeze his upper thigh in thanks.

“I’m sorry you have to drag me along on your holiday date, mom and dad.”

I stab a sausage through with my fork. “If you’ll one day let me pierce your ear, I’m well on my way to forgiving you.”

“Smashing.” Sirius chews through his food thoughtfully for a moment, flicking his eyes between James and me carefully, as if to suss something out. “Say, when you two—”

James interrupts, preemptively. “Going to finish that sentence?”

I start buttering a biscuit, smoothing my face into an expression of mildness; look up, meet Sirius’ eyes, boldly. Blink slowly. He raises his eyebrows at me, then looks back to James. “Nah, never mind, I've good faith Evans will tell me later.”

“Fucking hell,” James mutters into his coffee.

Sirius waves his own forked sausage in my direction. “There’s a joke here. You can have it, free of charge.”

“Hardly satisfying if you’re giving it to me for free,” I respond. “Besides, I'm not _seeking_ satisfaction. From you, anyway.”

James shoots a distressed look between Sirius and me. “Is _this_ flirting, still, even now?”

I squeeze his upper thigh again, ignore his question, blow onward. “Hey, I’ve got to nip into a shop, after this, if that’s alright. Need something for Petunia that reads as a gift but actually just inconveniences her.”

Sirius asks, “Sister?” and I correct, “Piece of work.”

James winces. “She’s home for Christmas?”

“Well, not staying with us, thankfully, but she and Vernon are around Christmas Eve and day of. It’ll be miserable. Frankly, I’d rather spend quality time with Peeves.”

“Vernon’s her—?” Sirius asks.

“Boyfriend,” I sigh. “Well—wait, fiancé.”

James’ eyebrows shoot up. “They got engaged?”

“Gods, yes. In October. I cannot imagine the travesty that wedding—that _marriage_ will be. He’s horrid. I mean—she’s horrid. I don’t know. Maybe they’re meant to be.” I groan and sink back into the booth, bury my face in my hands. “Gods, tomorrow she’s just going to flash around her stupid ring and say what a _shame_ it is I won’t have a nice normal life like her.”

“Nice _normal_ life?” Sirius sounds perplexed.

“She thinks I’m deranged, you know, because I’m a witch, and magic is ‘a rather unnatural stain,’” I emerge from my fingers, laughing. Sirius looks to James, unsure how to react to this. James looks to me, slips his hand under mine where it lays on the seat. “Oh, come on, it’s okay, she’s been like this since I was little.” They’re both still looking at me like I’m about to burst into tears. “Really, it’s fine. Doesn’t affect me anymore. It’s just noise that sounds like my sister, is all.”

“Since I’m the only of-age among us, I can slip a devilishly small curse into her holiday pudding,” Sirius says. “Just a tiny one, to make her ill in a way she can’t quite place.”

“Exceedingly kind of you to offer.” I laugh, smiling over at him, genuinely. “I’ll consider it.”

When our late-morning breakfast is all put away, we bang out onto bustling High Street, ramshackle cobblestones pinched with crowds. As we bluster toward the antique shop I’ve in mind, I see myriad familiar faces, friends of my mum’s from charity work, neighbors, kids I went to muggle primary school with. Dedham’s a rather small town, and I’m rarely want for a face I recognize, especially during holiday rush. James points out Bodsworth’s, across the street, to Sirius, and Sirius makes some comment about working men being so attractive to him, in particular “men who aren’t foolishly emasculated by flowers,” and there’s a bit of ridiculous tussling and then we’ve come to Artine & All, the dowdy shopfront of which does not in any way bespeak the interior.

We duck in from the cold huff of street to find the long, low-ceilinged room is unusually high trafficked, ten or so customers tucked in along the narrow dips and shelves and cases of old treasured things. We’re greeted immediately by the impatient tail of Ria, Artine’s old and opinionated cat—personally, my favorite shopkeep. Sirius bends to run his fingers along her exquisitely orange fur and she offers him an arched back, a long, contented meow.

“Am I only now regaining vision? Have I been blind all my life? Is this the red-haired daughter of my dreams?”

Our trio shifts sideways from the darkwood lip of the interior to behold the owner of the svelte voice: Artine. A curiously ageless woman; cheekbones high and cutting, eyes a rare, deep violet. Her lips, as I’ve always remembered them, since I was a young girl, are curved into a smile that feels as delicious as it feels dangerous. “Artine,” I smile, overcome, as always by her presence, its inexplicably magnetic aura. She folds my fingers through hers and pins me with her eyes.

“A catastrophic change in your chemistry since we’ve last met.”

It’s a statement, not a question—not even an observation. A truth culled from one look. She’s a penchant for reading others. Her eyes, cat-like, bold, scan from my face to the two beside me, and I feel her unspoken observation of James and Sirius, their sturdy, tall statures, their reckless hair and effortless smiles. Boys born for something better.

“A heart tugged,” she continues, and her penetrating stare lands on James. “Toward an indolent flame. Light begets light.” She releases my hands, offers one to James.

“Er, hi,” James takes the hand, uneasily, shakes it awkwardly. “James Potter.”

“Certainly, you are,” Artine does him a solid once-over, her eyes arching back toward me. “Indolent flames, Lily Evans, often burn forever.”

“Noted. And this is Sirius. He’s—you’ll know his family, the Blacks.”

Artine’s eyes widen almost undetectably, the flare of her mouth pursing into something like surprise. “Sirius Black,” she chews on his name as one would a challenging caramel. Her long velvet tunic is pale green that screams spectacularly against her dark skin; her fingers spangled in silver rings. “I am intolerably familiar with your family.”

“In which ways?”

Artine’s eyes flash. “It is not a happy story.”

“I am always unhappy,” Sirius responds. “What’s one more story?”

Some veil falls over the two of them, a pulsing net of hard black stars. I blink through it. Artine asks me, “May I steal him?”

“He’s not mine to keep,” I shrug. “I’m here for something beautiful but useless, for Petunia.”

Artine flutters a hand back toward the shop. “As you are.” Then she offers an arm to Sirius, and he spares a _what’s happening?_ sort of look back to James and me before taking her arm and being escorted back into the dark dusty store; a green knight on the arm of a sorceress.

“Okay, who is that?” James breathes, unraveling his brown wool scarf from his neck. “I feel like I’ve got little tiny spiders dancing all over my skin.” He spreads back a sleeve of his coat, as if to check for tiny spiders.

“Profoundly unsettlingly, isn’t she? Dear woman. Was ever so kind to me when I learned of my _affliction_.”

I take his hand and lead him toward the far left of the shop, where a doorway and two short steps lead to a narrow hallway, which leads, in turn, through an arched cut in the wall to another room—in here, tall bookshelves swollen in delectable rows of old books, intercut by shelves and cases of tiny knickknacks and trinkets; glass bowls and vintage gems and brass bird figurines. James gravitates toward a freestanding bookshelf, choked in multicolored glass jars. “She’s a witch?”

“What gave it away?”

“So, are any of these things—?”

“Some of them, surely,” I murmur, reaching to gently retrieve a tiny jeweled magnifying glass, so small it could fit comfortably in the hand of a child. I peek through its circular glass and find the room dancing in a kaleidoscope of jagged lines, aglitter, moving without motion. I extend the magnifying glass to James, who looks through and experiences the phenomenon of light.

“Subtle magic,” I offer.

“Could be mistaken for a trick of the light.”

We walk the room quietly. As with any place of old and rare things, respectful silence becomes it. Dust motes float through tired pangs of light tipping in from warped glass windows set high up against the walls, between bookshelves. James beckons me to look at an engraved music box, which, when opened, sends out a spark of blue dust from which a tiny gold ballerina emerges, twirls on her mechanical post. I show him an enormous green book, silver script declaring _The Earth, The Sky, and Wonders of Astronomy_. The galaxy sprawled across the cover rotates, oh-so-subtly, in a miniature rotation.

I find an appropriately useless present for Petunia on a far back shelf: A white-and-blue-flowered vase, intricately hand-painted, gleaming even in dull light. She’ll not be able to refuse its beauty, but will also abhor its use—never one for flowers, Petunia, despite her namesake. She’ll probably say, through gritted teeth, “what a loathsome, thin-necked bowl,” and I’ll say, “it’s from the 1900s” and she’ll say, “you shouldn’t have” and then we’ll glare at one another in perfect love. 

I retrieve the vase with careful hands and find, in its absence from the shelf, a small, propped-open jewelry box, and on its nightdark surface, a pair of exquisite earrings. From delicate silver posts tumble two thread-thin silver chains, speckled in five shimmering stars. A spill of cosmos. I lose breath in my lungs and touch a lone finger to the box. I spin the small price tag out from under the box and almost laugh, but then, James’ voice, from behind, interrupts my hypnosis: “Come have look at this.”

I turn and join him, vase in hand. He steps back from a glass case and motions inside, toward a painting in an opulent ivory frame. It’s a scene of long, diagonal stone cloisters, a blurry hall, a figure at one end, dictated in slashed lines of heavy oil paint.

"Looks painfully like the Transfiguration corridor, doesn't it?”

“Sure does.” I lean in to see if I can make out the scrawl of the artist’s signature, though it’s hopeless—the writing is more a tangled line than any name. “And look at this one,” I say, eyes wandering to a much smaller painting nearby, the scene clearer in its rendering: Sprawling autumnal lake, a shadow visible underneath blue, sloping surface; in the far distance, the silhouette of a many-armed tree that speaks very much of the Whomping Willow.

“Strange to see art of it,” I muse, finding it suddenly hard to imagine I’ve walked in these places at all. “Easy to forget it’s not just a school, but a piece of history. And that probably thousands of students have walked through it, before us, and, probably, after us.”

“Makes you feel smaller.”

I turn, and for a brief moment see his eyes as he says this, looking in something like reverence at a place we know so well—but, really, so little of. Then he looks back at me, and his eyes change, and he says, “Hi.”

“Hi.” I feel an ache in the back of my throat. It's the feeling of being in a place of old things, in a den of memory and time gone by, a place where every breath breathed is just another molecule added to the complication of others. I lean forward, kiss this feeling over; and when he opens his eyes and breathes, I think I understand a part of him must live in a place like this, unburdened by linear time.

I want to bottle that part and swallow it down—feel it fester in my lungs.

“I miss you already,” he whispers, as if we’re in a museum.

“It’s not so many days, barely two.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. “I promise to think of you while I fall asleep.” He spreads his fingers over my cheek and strokes a slow thumb over my jaw.

“There you godamn are!” Sirius is banging into the room now, shattering the glasslike quiet. “This place is _extremely_ labyrinthine. Are we ready? Are we snogging? What the hell are we doing back here?”

I hold up the vase. “I just need to purchase this, if you don’t mind.”

“ _That’s_ for Petunia?”

“She hates flowers.”

“Of course she does.”

“She hates anything that appears joyful without help, really. She’d eat Peter alive.”

The three of us walk back through the narrow hall to the front of the shop, where I buy the vase and Artine slips a secret piece of paper into my palm and drags a mysterious finger down the back of my hand.

“Lily, I think that woman put an enchantment on me,” Sirius says, low, as we leave the shop and rejoin the madness of High Street.

“What makes you say that?”

He laughs suddenly, a huge, booming thing that seems to fill the air around us with warmth. “I think I’m in love with her!”

“She didn’t actually put a move on you, did she? She’s quite keen on younger men.”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his head. “But she did say some awful things about my family and it just makes my heart pound.” He whips around on the sidewalk, walking backward for a second, pointing between James and I. “Do you two need me to ‘run an errand’ so you can swap spit in peace?”

“I’m wondering if you’ve ever had your facial features rearranged by a girl, before, Sirius Black.” I say looping my hand through James’ arm, catching his bright smile. “And if not, any interest in experiencing it?”

***

Later, at home, when I'm taking off my jacket, I remember the piece of paper from Artine:

_The end of one world is so tedious. Imagine, instead, the beginning of a world: All the light, the light, the light._

***

L,

In the miserable two hours since I saw you last, Mum somehow already coerced me into helping cook a meal, despite both of us knowing it never ends well—and lo and behold, I am now permanently banned from the kitchen for the rest of the holiday.

When accosted and demanded to explain “what is wrong with me,” apparently, saying, “I am but a scrap of a man, heart gone somewhere else” is not a good or acceptable answer.

I am now banished to my room and it’s snowing and somewhere down the road (I assume) you’re staring longingly out the window thinking of me, as well.

Did I ever tell you that during holiday break, fourth year, I drew you from memory? Downright creepy, yes, obviously, I know, I know. But I’ll enclose said portrait.

Please don’t sack me over this.

-J

***

J,

I’m quite on your mum’s side, in the matter, unfortunately. You tend, in your misery, to be insufferable.

To have caused this misery I _am_ sorry. I've tucked the portrait between the pages of the book I’m reading—Shirley Jackson, _The Sundial_ , you would like it—and smile every time I see it.

(My nose, however, is bit off, if I had but one critique.)

Petunia and Vernon are due in an hour or so and I am strongly considering walking out into the cold and not stopping until I’m a part of the landscape myself.

I miss you.

-L

***

L,

I realize I’m intensely biased, but if you died of hypothermia somewhere in the outskirts of Dedham the world would stop spinning and Christmas would be canceled. And I get to _see you_ on Christmas!

I beg you politely to withstand the evening. Maybe think of the time in July when we swam in the pool at night. That always keeps me warm.

Sirius is flirting with mum _far_ less than normal, which I find profoundly unsettling. He is sitting next to me now, three drinks in—keeps asking who I’m writing to, and if it’s Remus, if I’ll say hi from him, and to tell him he got a small cut on his hand but it’s not bleeding anymore.

Well, okay, now he’s rifling around looking for a bow to tie onto his prick. This is more the usual chap.

I miss you, too.

-J

***

J,

Funny you should bring up that night in the pool, because, as I recall, someone had a bit of a temper tantrum over a handjob.

I’m hiding in my room. Petunia, as predicted, is being dreadful. Vernon is wearing a sweater she clearly dislikes, and she won’t shut up about it, and he just talks louder and over her whenever she brings it up, and I can’t believe these two people are romantically involved let alone _marrying_ one another.

Petunia has yet to say one thing directly to me, and Mum is working overtime to appease the two of us, individually. I don’t make it very easy on her, but I can’t help it, not when it’s Petunia. I refused to be bullied on Christmas Eve!

I wish you were here. If you’ll forgive me the melodrama: I miss holding your hand. And your mouth. And handjob-tantrum aside, I miss that night in the pool. It _was_ warm.

-L

***

L,

I’m up early and every heathen in this home—Sirius included, and especially—is missing the magic of the Christmas morning snowfall.

(Notice I’m ignoring your quip about the handjob? Sue me for being _polite_ , Lily Evans. You can take my manners to court.)

It’s the grueling parade of Dad’s side of the family, now. Long boring lunch and lots of wondering if I am to _inherit_ the business and _run_ the business and I expect Uncle Ackley will listen for roughly one minute to any talk of the Order/uprising before going perfectly red in the face and spluttering out something about the undying strength of the Ministry and repouring everyone’s already full wine glass.

Anyway. We’ll be home by 7, I imagine. Come anytime after. Mum and dad will be off to the Clover soiree, and Sirius off to the Lupins. Maybe you want to stay over? Maybe you want to hold my hand, still?

Happy Christmas! I think this year’s miracle is you’re dating me of your own volition. It’s of your own volition, right? I’m shit at Amortentia, so if it’s an enchantment, it’s not on me.

-J

***

J,

Happy Christmas, idiot. I watched that magical snowfall, too.

No, you cannot sue over handjobs or politeness. And no, you didn’t ignore it—indeed, you mentioned it explicitly.

Uncle Ackley sounds lovely. Maybe he and Vernon should be introduced? Start a “Men Talented For Going Red in the Face When Proven Wrong” sort of club.

Of course I’ll stay over. Have I not mentioned, often, that I miss you?

And yes, it’s completely—if not unfortunately—of my own volition.

See you soon,

L

***

_Lily_

The Potter’s evergreen-crowned oak door swings open to a vision so debonair I think, for a moment, that I’ve certainly got the wrong place—but then I blink, and it’s simply a tuxedoed Fleamont Potter, gesturing me inside, wildly, booming, “Come in, come _in_ , Lily, happy Christmas, Merlin’s _coal_ , the _cold_!”

I quash an immediate feeling of being _very underdressed_ and oblige, ducking in through the flurry of snowfall into where it is warm and smells of pine and cinnamon and fresh-baked pastries; and feel, for the first time the whole long day, that I can breathe free of anxiety.

“I’ll take your coat, dear, come—you look bone-chilled, that walk must be longer than I remember.”

“I wandered a bit slowly, I’ll admit,” I say while shrugging off my coat and placing it, appreciatively, in his offered arms. “It’s a beautiful evening. Starry.”

“Yes, oh, nothing quite like it, starry winter nights in the country—and no lovely air pollution, like in London, eh? Could see a planet up in that cold expanse, if it came to that.” His eyes sparkle in such a James-like way that it’s almost unnerving—but, of course, the rest of his face is the precise original from which James’ was copied; these strong lines and easy smile and hair that can be tamed, but only briefly.

“Love, is that Lily, now?”

A brazen clicking of heels precedes Euphemia Potter—who, when she emerges from the kitchen down the hall and sees me, explodes in an electric, bracing smile. She is a portrait of glamour herself, black velvet sheath dress and shiny stilettos and hair clipped up in a sophisticated coil. “Lily,” she croons, lushly, reaching to fold me in a tight embrace. “Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

She pulls back, holds my hands, squeezes them, smile so wide and so warm and so welcoming that I can only return it, saying, “Mrs. Potter, you look so glitzy, and wonderful—and happy Christmas.”

“ _Euphemia_ , darling, really,” she releases my hands, waves away my compliment. She begins rummaging through a small table near the sitting room couch, exclaiming triumphantly and fishing out a small silvery clutch, and then, from its interior, a shiny black tube of lipstick. “The elusive _summer rose_!” She turns toward the stairway to shout, “James! Sirius! Won’t you come down?”

Fleamont approaches, two cloaks in hand, sparing a glance at his watch, a glance at his wife. “Love, the—we’re on the dot, here.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Euphemia nods dismissively. “Oh, but first, would you—in the study, on the side, with the—the little box? Blue bow?”

With a snap and smile, Fleamont nods. “Yes, good, be right on with it,” and is throwing the cloaks onto the curve of the stairs before disappearing down the hall.

“Oh, I’ve a—” I recall, suddenly, the gift bag in my hand, and its contents. “From my mum and dad for, just a holiday, er, thing.”

“Now, they shouldn’t have,” Euphemia _tsks_ with her tongue, pulling the champagne—one my mum worried over for a good half a day—from the bag. “Such _dears_. I’m bursting. You’ll tell them we’re counting on a dinner, here, while the two of you are home, won’t you?”

“Oh—lovely, yes, of course.”

She looks up at me and smiles, this time quietly. “You’re quite welcome here, Lily, I hope you know that. We’re very—happy to have you, anytime.”

“You’re too—you’re very kind,” I respond, gently, feeling red flush through my cheeks.

Fleamont remerges from the hall once again, a tiny blue-bowed box in hand. “For our favorite neighbor,” he says, grinning, bestowing the box upon me with a flourish. “Also, the girlfriend of our son, who has decidedly disappeared?”

“It’s that stupid game, up there,” Euphemia scowls, shaking her head. Then she turns back and nods at me, says, “Go on, then, love.”

I look at the two of them in surprise. “This is for me?”

“Yes,” Euphemia laughs. “A little something. You’ll not think us too obnoxious, I hope.”

“Oh, no, never,” I assure her, untying the blue bow and delicately sliding a thumb under the pretty blue paper. A long rectangular box emerges. I open it, find, inside, a thin gold chain bracelet; in its center, a tiny, square-cut blue gem. Stunning.

“Oh,” I swallow, overcome. “Oh my, it’s gorgeous.”

“It was my great-grandmother’s,” Euphemia tells me. “I thought it might become you.”

I stare intently at the bracelet, for a second, then look back up at Mr. and Mrs. Potter, both beaming at me. I’m positively overwhelmed by them, by this extravagant and unnecessary gift. It seems a shared trait among Potters: A brave and unapologetic generosity for those they care for.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. This is—this is too much.”

“No, no,” Fleamont waves a hand. “Most welcome.” He checks his watch, touches Euphemia’s shoulder. “Really, it’s now—we must be off.”

A cry erupts from somewhere upstairs, possibly James’ room, the closest to the stairs, followed by a bout of boisterous laughter. A second later, the door bursts open and Sirius flies out to the landing, exclaiming, “I beat him! I beat him! I finally beat—Evans? When the hell did you get here?”

He’s bounding down the stairs now, just as James emerges in his bedroom door, pauses a moment, finds me below; a smile stretches over him, and my heart goes stupid for it.

There’s a commotion as Sirius lands in the sitting room and seizes me up in some dramatic hug. I laugh, quite involuntarily, clutching at his shoulders, saying, “Happy Christmas, then, Black.”

“I _beat_ him!” he exclaims, setting me down, wild with the joy of whatever the hell this means.

“Sirius, love, you’ll behave at the Lupins?” Euphemia is asking, desperately.

“Cross my _heart_ ,” Sirius returns, placing a well-meaning palm to his chest, accepting Euphemia’s kiss to the cheek. “And thank you, for the hospitality, as always, my favorite pair of parents.”

I take the distracted moment to close the jewelry box in my hands, place it gently on a nearby credenza. James has descended the stairs and is hugging his father, who whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh. I catch the sparkle of the laugh right in the crook of my elbow; am cut by him, as if by glass, even from across the room.

“Okay, and, yes, I’ve got my purse and my—” Euphemia’s brow is creased in concentration as she looks to Fleamont. “Card for the Clovers?”

“Jacket pocket, sweetheart,” Fleamont shoulders an outer cloak and plaid wool scarf, offering a long swooping something to Euphemia. She clutches James’ face in her hands. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, look at you!”

“Go on now, Mum, enjoy.”

“Oof, tall order,” she says, kissing his forehead affectionately. She dons her own cloak—rich black velvet, very witch-chic—and turns toward Sirius and I. “Happy Christmas, everyone. Do keep safe? I can’t stand I have to leave. It’s such a dowdy affair, the Clovers.”

“And such sour company,” Fleamont grumbles, offering her an arm.

She pats his cheek and takes the arm. “Alright. We’re off, Mr. Potter.”

With a wild _snap_ and a whoosh of manufactured wind, the Potters, Mr. and Mrs., are dissaparated out of the sitting room, tossed somewhere into the cold and glamorous night.

Sirius claps his hands together. “Okay, I’m on my way, too, Lupin’s going to get all testy if I’m not home before dark.”

“Dark out, already, I hate to tell you.”

I receive a decidedly unfestive middle finger for this comment as Sirius hops back the stairs.

James is left looking at me in a way that feels a bit like the odd weeks of limbo between my night in the infirmary and the night he came back to the quarters with a bloody cheek. Distant longing. Clear, unashamed.

I grin, unwilling to disguise my elation. “Happy Christmas, James.”

Then he’s crossed the room to me and the almost inconceivable shortness of two days suddenly feels very long, painfully so, as if I’ve forgotten the nervous excited rush of my breath when he’s near, how easy it is to spread my fingers over his and feel the skin of his palms, warm.

He kisses me painstakingly, like this is his first and only chance. I want to spill him down the back of my throat. I want to kiss from the back of his knee to his ankle. I want to lay next to him, without touching, just looking.

I have to suck in a breath, like I’ve sprinted, and won. He murmurs, “Happy Christmas, Lils.”

Unfortunately for Sirius, who is tromping back down the stairs with a suitcase, we’re a bit drowned in each other’s eyes. “Blimey, I’m gone for two bloody seconds and you’re practically making _love_.”

The temptation to ignore him is strong, but the temptation to glare is much stronger.

“Oh, and now I’m being given this look? Alright, Evans, cool your godamn jets, I’m leaving, and then you can have him all to yourself, _ho, ho, ho_. Chrissakes.”

James spreads his fingers along my lower back and I brighten to his touch; reach to cover that hand with my own.

Sirius looks ganged-up on. “I’m hurt.”

“You’ll send Remus my love?” James asks. “You’ve got the present?”

“I will tell him you said to tell him ‘hi,’ but that’s all,” Sirius intones, picking a piece of lint off his thick black sweater.

I ask, “Going to apparate, Mr. Of-Age?”

“No,” Sirius grumbles. “I’m rather talented only at splinching, in that regard. I’ve a portkey, actually, somewhere around here—”

“Credenza.”

Sirius mock-salutes and beelines for said credenza. “Okay, listen.” He pinches between his brow with fingers. He emerges and looks at me. “I yelled, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Not sure why you think I’m kicking you out, I’d love to chat, like, all night, with you—”

“Okay, apology effectively _rescinded_!” He cries, looking frantically to James. “I hope you’re happy with your choices, Potter!”

“Oh, I can assure you I am,” James murmurs, gives a little wave. “Owl when you’re there, safe, will you?”

“I will consider it very angrily!” Sirius says, grabbing onto his suitcase, and reaching for what seems to be a pear laying on the small table; the second his fingers make contact with the portkey, he’s sucked into an odd and bright spiral that seems to cut right through the fabric of reality. The next instant, he, and the pear: vanished.

I wobble on my heels, slightly. Apparation and portkey travel are such odd sensations to witness, and so soon after one another. James’ fingers brush off my back. I turn. “He’s not actually angry, is he?”

“No,” James answers, laughing. “He’s bitter, is all. Can’t imagine he’s all too upset to be spending a confusing week with Moony.”

“Confusing?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what will happen. Doubt he does, either. And I don’t want Remus to get hurt but—” he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want him to lose a chance at being happy.”

I pull at the edge of my sweater. “And Sirius? You’re not afraid he’ll be hurt?”

“Only by himself.”

We stare. I reach for the long rectangular box.

James sees the box, and looks alarmed. The light of his surprise tumbles over his rather pureblood Christmas Day get-up: Crisp, respectfully buttoned white shirt, neat brown pants, shiny shoes, gold watch. I’m struck, suddenly, by the immensity of wealth he’s grown up around; the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to brag.

“It’s lovely, but—”

“But?”

“It’s so much.”

“She, I told her—” he sighs frustratedly. “I told her you would think so, and she means well, and I think it’s just her way of being—” he props a helpless hand on his hip. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, gods, no, don’t be sorry,” I shake my head, uncertain even in my own reaction. “Really, it’s a very kind gift, I’m just—it’s very much your great-great-grandmother’s bracelet and it just feels like something that should go to someone who’s, um...just feels a bit like something that should go to a family member.”

“And you’re shocked Euphemia wants you to be a member of the family?”

“I’m—” I look at him incredulously, now. “Well, a bit, yes, given we’ve only been dating for a fairly small amount of time.”

“You can’t begrudge her _liking_ you, Lils, most people find it hard not to.”

“That’s not—you’re being unfair. It’s—I just feel—very _swept up_ , as if I haven’t had a second to stop and think about it, that’s all. And it’s not about your mum, or this bracelet, really.”

A beat of silence. I find he looks worried, now. “It’s about me, then?”

I groan. “No, it’s about us.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” I say, exasperated. “I am just having an emotional breakdown over a bracelet, is all.”

He laughs now, but clamps a hand over his mouth, quells the sound.

“Will you just tell me one, honest thing?”

“Eagerly.”

I shift my weight from one leg to the other. “Do you see yourself dating me long-term?”

His eyes widen slightly. “Yes,” he answers, straightaway.

“Okay, good.” 

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good.”  
  
“I’m—” I fiddle with a sweater sleeve. “I’m sorry if we’ve just had a row.”

“Oh, _gods_.”

“Did we? I’m sorry.”

“If you don’t quit apologizing, we _are_ going to row, guaranteed.”

“It’s a pretty bracelet, really, it’s spectacular.”

“Let me put it on you.”

I offer him the box, and he steps up to me and takes the delicate chain from its box and clasps it around my wrist. I will myself to forget the whole conversation about _Euphemia wanting me to be a member of the family._ The bracelet is thin and cool against my skin. James’ fingers weave around it.

“Can we fool around now?”

I laugh and pull him to me and feel his breath heat my neck. I hold him for a second; he feels good in my arms. I kiss the skin between his open collar. “Oh boy,” I murmur.

“Oh boy is right.”

The pulsing gambit of mutual attraction. I flee and find his face. Try and map his desire. I want his hands to wrap around my thighs. I brush my lips on his. He seizes my tongue. I am all of a sudden moaning. “Oh, merry Christmas,” he laughs, pulling me flush against him, and this is so rude of him, to make fun, so I yank him by the neck to have a word with my lips and teeth and tongue—and he dissolves, quickly, into his own moaning.

I ask, “Are we going to be naked in the sitting room?”

He shakes his head and vacates the curve of me and tugs me toward the stairs. I follow like a kid on—well, Christmas night.

***

_James_

In my room, I say, “I have to hang up these clothes nicely, or Mum’ll have my neck.”

Lily turns on her heels, grins. “Allow me.”

I am unconscionably needy for her. If I am looking to justify, I might blame it on being a teen; on her being my very first crush; on the fact that we’ve not had a moment to ourselves for at least a week; on the steady pink flush climbing up the side of her neck; on the only light in the room falling in from the bright snowfall; on my irresponsible thinking of her, the previous night. Perhaps, the jerking off did nothing to solve the problem. Perhaps, it created a worse problem.

But now—her in my bedroom, a mirage no more. I am all beating heart stupid boy.

“Have a sit,” she beckons me toward the low bench sort in front of my bed. I have a sit. Reach out to edge a finger along the hem of her wooly sweater. She steps out of her low-heeled boots, places them neatly away. She craves organization. I crave her organization. She’s wearing a pair of pants that slip all up her waist in some ridiculously well-fit cinch; bright emerald green. I slip my hands around the swell of her thighs. “Do you know what I thought about last night?”

Her eyes flicker through something. She begins on my shirt buttons, maintains a quiet concentration. “Tell me.”

“I thought about you above me,” I run the backs of my hands down the lovely meeting of waist and leg. “Smothering me with these.”

I watch the ripple of her throat. She’s finished with the buttons. I shrug off the shirt. She asks, “Hanger?” and I nod in the direction of my bureau.

She leaves me. There’s a complicated twist of hair at the nape of her neck. Sometimes, I think I see the same red somewhere; but then I blink, and find, after all, it’s a color you only know once.

Shirt hung, rebuttoned, she is back with her long legs. In the corners of her eyes, something bright, a little blue, that makes the green inside something to behold. Now she’s kneeling. “Smothered,” she says, palms on my thighs, creeping up.

The unbearable current of her nearness; fingers slipping to the button of my pants, sliding it open. Arguably, I am a useless conductor of energy without her spark. She unzips. Darts fingers under the waistband, shimmies the fabric down from my hips and I lift myself to aid the descent of pants down legs, off legs. She pauses in her work to stare down the tract of bare skin. Traces twin fingers down the sides of my thighs, fingers flaring scratchy leg hair. She kisses one knee.

“Smothered,” she repeats. I watch her stand and leave again; slides my pants onto a clipped hanger; sets them alongside my shirt.

“Sometime,” she wonders, returning, “would you let me watch?”

There are two thin slashes of black at the crest of her eyelids. I follow the lines as she blinks. “Watch?”

Her fingers touch my throat; a tremor alights my neck. “You touch yourself.”

I turn my face to hers and see her unsmiling mouth, see she’s dead serious. “You’d want to watch that?”

“What, you get to tell me you’re thinking of me while you do it but won’t let me _watch_ you do it?” She spreads her hand around my neck now, toeing at my feet so I’ll let her between my knees. “I’d let you watch me.”

An image of Lily touching herself takes forceful hold: Her fingers slipping down through sheets, legs parting. Head thrown back against the pillow.

She kisses me, now, softly. “What are you thinking?”

I tilt my chin to the side, kiss the spread of her fingers. “How lucky this hand is.”

“Then don’t forget this one.” Her other hand falls to my mouth and I kiss those fingers, too, one by one. Her breath hitches. I run my hands along her hips, stomach, up under the wooly sweater, till I find something flimsy, gossamer. I barely scrape a finger over the surface before I encounter the hard cut of nipple.

I look up and she is breathless, pulling the sweater up and over her head.

The breasts of my constant fixation are ensconced in barely more than a breath of white satin, ruffled in its low-dipping edges. In the very center, a tiny pink rosebud. I kiss the skin just above the rosebud; move slowly along the outlying swells, the waves of her breath pushing the ill-covered skin up against my lips, breasts straining at torturously sheer fabric. My tongue smothers one peak; adoring mouth brutishly wetting the silk.

I find her eyes as I meander from one breast to the other, swirling tongue and teeth over fragile protection. She is absolutely pink-cheeked, mouth parted but for long, shaky breaths. Contrary to her usual impatience with my breast-related neurosis, she curves a hand to my neck and keeps me centralized; even breathes, mid-whine, “Feels, _ooh_ , _mhm_ , deliriously nice, love.”

My eager tongue sweeps under the dismal satin barrier, and Lily’s fingernails dig into the back of my head as my mouth closes around a now-bared nipple, tongue roaming relentlessly. I test her desire for a rougher tug; she gasps. I grin. Kiss the underside of the breast at hand.

Now my fingers slip along the loosened waist of her pants, find its button to release. She does a funny little hip-wiggle and the pants are yesterday’s news. I find, in their absence, another curious slip of underthing, hugging tightly to hips, barely covering her bum. I trace a finger down one exposed curve and she shivers, hands falling down to my shoulders.

My eyes sweep the length of her, the miniscule knickers, half-askew bra, gauzy and white and rose-budded. I look up, find her biting her lip. She asks—as if she doesn’t already know the answer—“Do you like them?”

My fingers touch the curl of skin where hip meets thigh. “You’re something out of a myth.” I lean my forehead into her stomach, turn my cheek to the soft curve, fingers slinking under soft knickers, clutching the swells of her arse.

“You—”

“Are you real? Have I wandered into a portrait?”

Now she’s climbing over me abruptly and the sudden contact of skins is like a shot of adrenaline; I groan right down the barrel of the gun. She kisses down my throat and neck and slides a lethal tongue along my earlobe; sucks. Her hips crash down on my lower half and the hard and the soft and the “ _oh, wow_ ” and then she grins from above, holding my face in her hands. Kisses me luxuriously slow. Rotates against me. Aggravates me. “ _Lily_ ,” I groan, though she’s got my tongue between her teeth. “I’m already halfway undone, here, what do you want?”

“Want to feel this,” an emphasizing push of the hips, “inside.”

I rope my arms around her and lift, do an unsteady, unpracticed, ungraceful turning maneuver that riles a breathy laugh from her as we fall, clumsy, to the bed. I kneel, awkwardly, lowering her gently down—and when she looks up at me, I am struck through by the living memory of a long-ago July day, a bike ride somewhere on the outskirts of Dedham, a long uphill ledge. Lily wearing a blue tank top, one of the straps fallen, off her shoulder—me kissing the bare shoulder, righting the strap, and her looking at me like this, like a brutal sheet of rain could wash us both down the side of the hill and when we reached the bottom, battered and soaked, she’d still have some quiet adoration to spare.

Perhaps she senses the shift in me; she lays a loving hand along my face. Our lips meet. My heavy breath; I swallow hard. She curls a hand to my arm and pulls me down, over her. She blinks, rapidly, fingers tightening on my arm. Her voice is just breath. “You love me so well.”

I am not sure if she means _love_ or if she means _love_ but maybe the line between the two is thin and thinner every day; I allow myself only a second of staring before I slide fingers over her silky underwear and her legs part and she moans, returning the gesture, hand curling around the outline my cock. Her back curves into a desperate arch; she whines, “ _please_ ,” and I usurp frothy fabric till wetness pools my fingers, warm. She writhes into my palm. “ _Yes._ ”

I am urgent; I think it’s her look, her spilling breasts, the rain and the hill and the thinning of lines. I do away with my underwear, hers. Body relaxes gently overhead; Lily reaches to cull her hand to my cock, bring it to her wanting heat, rub it over; I watch her eyes close, lips part. Kiss along her neck. Let her guide me how she wants me. Hips settle over hips. The sweet feeling of her; I am open-mouthed in her throat.

I go slow. Fill and retract as a stream through stones, water curving steadily toward source. My lips retrace the wettened silky bra and she threads her fingers sweetly in my hair. Eventually, in the middle, she rolls onto her side and readjusts me from behind; a hand reaching back to grip my arm. I lengthen my strides and lavish her shoulder with my tongue and meet her lips when she cranes around for me; slowing tongues.

I’m unsure if it’s the holiday or the time apart or the simple fact of her body under mine but the steady ease of pleasure expires much quicker for me then for her; after I’ve already shuddered through an electrical shock, she guides my fingers between her legs and asks for long, hard strokes from behind. She teeters on the edge, breathless, spasming; I duck into her shoulder, squeeze my eyes shut. Feel the moment she elapses like a hotline to my own body; irradiating. She reaches back, stills me, hand on hip. “ _Ooh_ ,” she breathes, hoarsely. “Stay here, a minute.” Neck twisting, she finds me chin-first, lip-first. Sighs against my mouth.

I am a hollow thing. And I find I ache for her as if I am alone, even now.

***

_Lily_

I wake the morning after Christmas day blanketed in James. Chalky morning light pours in through the windows. One of my legs is quite caught under his; no moving without waking him. So I look, and I smile down into his arm, thrown over me, and kiss it, selfishly.

After our uncommonly vulnerable coupling, we’d crept downstairs for hot cocoa adorned with tiny marshmallows, and James told me all about seeing the unendurable Uncle Ackley, and cousin Finn, who asked after me relentlessly, and his favorite, Aunt Sophia, youngest sibling on his dad’s side, who slipped him some covert information on the Order, and expressed desperation to meet me, and soon. I complained about Petunia only briefly, taking one heavy moment with my face dipped to his shoulder to exhale about what I miss about her: Having a sister who cared, who loved me without judgment. I told him the happier parts, too, the wool socks Mum gifts us all each year, this year a speckled navy pattern, as well as the scintillating stack of new books from dad. And then I'd admitted, rather embarrassingly, that I'd completely forgotten to get him any kind of Christmas gift and his eyes went wide and he said he'd _also_ forgotten to get me something and we had a laugh that carved all the air from our lungs and dissolved, eventually, into copious couch-necking; cathartic, centering, good. It was late when we returned to his room. We brushed our teeth and I washed the makeup from my face and borrowed a flannel pajama top and when James said good night, I think he meant _I love you_.

Looking at him, now, peacefully asleep, my roving mind focuses, stubbornly, on how his leg is not the only heaviness stuck against mine. Unexpectedly, I am slightly stirred by the feeling of him, laden—and after a pathetically small second of deliberation, I find no harm in a discreet hand slipping down between my own legs, tooling about, aimlessly. I focus on the gorgeous line of his shoulders, rising and falling with sleep; the flush of eyelash, turmoil of hair. It’s impossible not to think of him saying my name; coming inside of me. Underneath my borrowed pajama top, I feel my nipples harden, provoked. The situation becomes slightly more serious when his fingers twitch, just briefly, at my stomach. I will not make a sound. I dip a finger between my folds. I am stupidly dewed. I add another finger; the rubbing becomes oddly serious, a messy friction. I wet my lips with my tongue, bite the inside of my cheek.

Against my better judgment, I think about his cock, hard; moving deep inside.

This does it. I’m sunk. I whine, foolishly, a hip jutting at an odd angle to quell the sparkle of want that bursts through, blinding.

James’ hand twitches, again. I freeze. His breath lengthens. Eyelashes flutter. His leg—heavy, and the other—shifts, which is wildly detrimental to my cause of _staying deadly still_. The movement aggravates my own hand, stilled, and I exhale much more audibly than I intended.

Sleepy eyes blink over. “Lils? Oh, shit—” he becomes aware of his precarious leg-and-cock pinning me down situation, and immediately rolls to his side, and my own leg, released in such a hurry from confinement, tingles with release. “You’re—” James peers at me, and I’m grateful, briefly he’s not wearing glasses, maybe can’t see that I’m—“what’s the matter?”

“Nothing the matter,” I murmur, attempting to smooth my voice into a regular, even tone, and failing miserably; sounding, instead, very much like a person with something to hide.

James rolls all the way onto his back to retrieve his glasses and when he returns, he reaches to fold the blankets back and I reach out, grab his wrist, stop the motion. “Don’t,” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Do that.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Not,” I am miserable, “yet.”

James folds the cover, over, infinitesimally, finds my hand trapped between my legs—and looks back up to me, eyebrows shot to the skies.

“I’m—it’s—I wasn’t _trying_ for any—it was just...your leg was all, _on_ mine and your—”

“Lily, please,” he interrupts, lowly. “Don’t stop on my account.”

He spreads himself sideways down the bed, head propped up in an elbow. He looks elaborately awake, now.

I swallow, heart pounding. This permission excites me. My legs unclench, slightly. I reach with my free hand, rest fingers along the plane of his neck. I undo the buttons of the flannel shirt. He watches the fingers as they part the fabric open; slip back down to the pulse, untouched. My hand, at his neck, curls downward to press his sternum. I watch his throat move.

The other hand returns to the insistent place. I bend one knee; lungs fill sweetly with air. A burn of shy heat floods my neck. He stares. He stares. I hardly slide a finger an inch before I am shot through with that shiver, temper a reedy whine; look down to his moving throat. _Hollow me out, dig me a grave_. I plummet another finger and hips bolt briefly. His chest expands and I plant so firmly in in the dip of his sternum that I feel the bone beneath, unyielding. His pupils dilate till his eyes are lakes of ink. The slip of my need is now intolerant; fingers move quicker, tug the undertow.

I stare at his throat. “Tell me how it feels,” he whispers.

It feels like knowing he’s been here, differently; knowing he’s watching me, now, closely; knowing the brush of his fingers against my hand at his chest. Every coil in the clock of my body wound unimaginably tight, straining.

“Exasperating,” I say, in some slant of wind. “Unbearably good.”

My fingers curve upward and find a hollow inside. His mouth opens and seems to emit a moan that belongs then to me; like a string hooked through his lip, tied through my throat, tilting me open. Cut through the bright center. My hips like undulant waves; blind hand, gripping the delicate hairs of his chest, distracted. The strain of my back dispels the burdensome garment, bare swells revealed inadvertently; the force of the touch compels me to my side, rolling over the friction, hurting for more, gasping.

My palm on his chest is so wild and tugging I fear I’ll tear a part of him away; a sheath of my own hair tumbles along my hot cheek and he reaches to skim it away and that simple brush of fingers over skin is the cruelest thing he’s ever done—I reel, bite at his wrist. “ _Fuck_ ,” I whine along the translucent blue veins of his forearm; lifelines. “Give me your _mouth_.”

He gives me an inclined neck and I grapple for the chin and my thighs spasm violently up against the blistering palm when he catches my cry with his teeth, tongue. I am unconstrained and propelled, groaning madly into his mouth. “Look at me,” he pleads, and I can see a flash of my chaotic reflection in the rounds of his glasses. “Look at me.”

I gasp a strangled unfamiliar sound; fingers fly out from under and seize the heated slipping outside with a final, insolent, glittering throb; his eyes hold me still and steady. Gold-black. I am half-sobbing along his lips, thighs clenched around my hand in trembling relief, heart yammering dumbly, overflowing. He kisses with all the order I lack; for all my turmoil, his tenderness. My face aflame, this hollowed-out fire in my throat.

I touch the back of my hand to his smile. _Who is he?_ He kisses the back of the hand. “Is that generally how that goes?”

“Are you kidding me? Are you joking?” I devour him; I want to invoke a war. “I’m shaking, feel me,” I yank his hand to my hip, and he squeezes and this is too much for the hand between; I am moaning, again, already, a useless human girl, living only for a seventeen-year-old Quidditch player with shitty vision. I push him till he lets me fall over him, legs parting too easily over his hips, hand messy with evidence dragged up by curious fingers; tasted by curious mouth.

“Holy _gods_ are you hard.” I palm his cock, frantically, unable to pull myself together, even for a single second.

His hands run the length of my back; lips split in two. “Have I ever told you you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen?”

“Will you _stop_.”

“Evans.”

I look at him. His hand on my lower back urges me forward, right up over his length. It’s a test in sensitivity, in the slow slip of desire. In his eyes, a version of him I don’t often see: A cheeky James, a show-me-who’s-boss-James, a half-smiling-looking-awfully-like-he-wants-to-be-fucked James.

I am floored by this longing. He maneuvers my hips onward; agonizing friction. I fold close enough to ask, delicately, for a kiss. Open eyes. He delivers, but is holding back, as if I am not bright, and brightening.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers around my lips. “To take full advantage of me.”

Between our bodies, the slant of my lean and his shifting thighs and my bold hand allow a slow, new meeting, one long, stiff ache; stretching. Relief. I stare at his throat as he swallows. His hands whisper up my back. The cavern of self filling, overwhelmed, with unfettered cosmos.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait, enjoy the absurd length on this one, & thank you, always, for reading!

* * *

11

No masters or kings when the ritual begins  
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin  
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
Only then I am human  
Only then I am clean

—Hozier, “Take Me To Church”

***

_James_

_parity_

_integrity_

_justice_

_(in this order)_

_twelfth (stone, lucid path); twentieth (notch, rudimentary dial); here, rely on what you need, when you need it_

The five of us huddle on the floor of the third Gryffindor boy’s dormitory on the left and pass the paper between us. The ink is blue, the words placed haphazardly, almost carelessly. Peter found the tattered parchment earlier in the day, molded to the underside of a marble courtyard bench.

Sirius squints to read the practically illegible scrawl. “Okay, we get it. Pettigrew’s writing poetry now.”

“ _Now_ you recall my aspiration, not when I explicitly gave you those haikus?” 

Lily’s eyes rove the paper quickly. She mouths the words silently. “I mean, it’s about the Order, right?”

Sirius quirks his head. “Order?”

“Of the _Phoenix_ , tosser.” Remus elucidates.

Sirius glares at him, “No need for—” then turns again, to Lily, “You reckon?”

I reach a hand toward Lily; she hands me the paper. I re-read. “ _Parity, integrity, justice, in that order_.”

Peter has a pained look. “ _Parity_...”

“Equality,” Lily murmurs.

“Okay, great, so someone’s listed off some nice-sounding principles, stances the Order, arguably, would stand for, sure, but...” Remus takes the paper from me. “ _Twelfth (stone, lucid path); twentieth (notch, rudimentary dial); here, rely on what you need, when you need it._ What’s all of that?”

“Well, 20th of the month, that’s fairly obvious, I’d say,” Lily muses, blinking as though she’s somewhere else, not in this room. “And eight in the evening—that’s the twentieth notch in a twenty-four hour dial.”

“Fairly obvious, _okay_ , Evans, what if it’s not a riddle, and it just means there’s a well-lit path of rocks and something’s going down at the twelfth, huh? And there’s, er, a _sundial_ out there, huh?” Sirius opens his palms, as if this is somehow a less-than-surface-level evaluation.

The far-off look in Lily’s eyes has intensified. Her mind is whirring, too preoccupied to throw back some smart quip at Sirius. “I don’t know. This is a rather _casual_ way to arouse interest in a resistance that’s managed to slide under even the Ministry’s radar.” She’s got one knee bent, arms looped around it, chin propped up on it. “Just looks like a student’s shitty handwriting.”

“Looks like your handwriting, Pete, come to think of it,” Sirius mutters.

Remus ignores Sirius, looks to Lily. “I agree. It’s an odd way to distribute information on a meeting, anyway. I mean, anyone could’ve picked this up. Why would it be so easily found?”

“Maybe that's exactly how they'd expect regular-minded people to react.” I offer. “I mean, surely it’s right bullocks that the actual Order is setting loose poorly written half-riddles on torn parchment in weird nooks and crannies of the castle, hoping someone other than Borgraves or Malfoy or Snape will snatch it up and figure it out—but, again, maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe it’s, I dunno, reverse-psychology.”

“That could be. With the caveat, then, that we don’t think so highly of ourselves as not being _regular-minded people_ ,” Remus smiles sardonically.

“Name one mind in this group that is _regular_ , Moons, go on.”

“I can name one that's _ir_ regular, if you like.”

Sirius chucks a pillow in his direction; Remus catches it perfectly in-hand.

“Ok so we’re definitely going to wherever on the 20th, at 8, is what I’m hearing?” Peter says, nodding, checking his watch. “That’s a week from now.”

“Got a calendar on your watch?” Lily leans over to peek at the watch as Peter nods and shows her. She’s smiling, amused. “Muggle watch?”

Peter shrugs, says lowly, so just she hears, “I’m _supreme_ at Muggle Studies. Gotta walk to talk. Or—er, however that goes.”

Her quiet laugh flowers just for him. I feel something like gratitude cinch the back of my neck.

Sirius is stretching his legs through the center of the circle, leaning back onto the bed behind him. There are several complaints about the physical disruption, especially from Remus, who receives a pair of feet, tucked over his own socked-ankles.

Lily meets my eyes, briefly, across the circle.

I re-focus our efforts. “Okay, well—what’s this last part? Maybe the location? If we’ve got a date and time?”

“ _You can rely on what you need, when you need it_.” Remus repeats, running a finger down the length of his nose; a gesture of deliberation.

“Can’t think of a single location in this castle where I’ve gotten what I needed, when I needed it,” Sirius grumbles—then brightens, slightly, “Except, I suppose, that four-poster over there, and my own left hand—”

“Don’t think your _bed’s_ the secret location, mate,” I wince.

Lily, biting at a smile.

“Well, not _this_ secret meeting, but maybe, Lupin, another?”

Remus kicks the imposter feet off his ankles roughly, and Sirius bursts, “Some _sensitivity_ , perhaps?”

“Hardly your forte, Black, is it?”

Lily, coughing to cover a laugh.

“Being pricks now, are we?”

“Yeah, well, you started it.”

“Chaps, fucking hell, can we—?” I plead, looking between their now-blaring eyes. Remus collapses back into his cross-legged slump. Sirius’ eyes glint a bit longer.

Peter leans sideways, to Remus’ ear. “Can we table that? I didn’t know you slept in each other’s beds.”

Remus groans into a frustrated hand. “ _No_ tabling.”

“How do you get anything done?” Lily asks, spinning her eyes from Peter, to Remus, to Sirius, to me; and I shrug, helpless, because most often nothing gets done. She shakes her heads and flips her hair around one shoulder. “Regardless. I think I know what that last bit means.”

Four heads turn to her. She folds her knee down, looks around at us. “I feel like you all might too, and if you don’t—well, then I know a castle secret you’ve yet to put on your special little map.”

“Special little map? Care to retract such a disrespectful—that thing took bloody _ages_ —”

I snap, “ _Sirius_.”

“Right.” He flexes his fingers outward, in irritation, but nods in surrender toward Lily. “Carry on.”

“I think it means the Room of Requirement.”

Four blank faces. Lily observes us all individually. At the corner of her lips, a little tug. “Or, sometimes, the Come and Go room?” Her eyes lands on my face, and now a flash of triumph seizes her, smile bursting through. “No? No one? Not one of you? Intrepid cartographers?”

“Lily,” Remus inclines his head, kindly. “What’s this place?”

“The Room of Requirement,” she begins, clearly relishing the opportunity to divulge a secret to us, when it’s so often been the other way around. “Can only be entered when a person has a real need of it. Sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it’s not. When it appears, it’s always equipped for exactly what you need—when you need it.”

“Where, though?” Peter asks, craning his neck toward her in mounting curiosity.

“Seventh floor. Opposite the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry.”

“No, we would know about that.” Sirius slides his cocked eyebrow around the group, then gives it to Lily. “You’re having us on.”

“I am _not_ ,” Lily huffs, sitting up a bit straighter, a frustrated slip of hair sliding out from behind her ear. If I wasn’t so far from her, I would reach out, tuck it back in place. “It’s real, and I’ve been in it.”

“And how’s that, then?”

“Well, third year, I was—um,” she clears her throat, “I’d had a particularly brutal row with Sev, and I just felt miserable, and alone, and was running rather amuck, not knowing what to do with myself. And I ran into Dumbledore, and it was a bit awkward, as I’d never exactly _talked_ to him, and was in fact scared of him—but that night, when he saw what kind of state I was in, he was very kind. He said when he was feeling a bit homesick, or blue, or something—I don’t remember what, exactly—he said he would go up to that tapestry, and walk past it three times thinking about what he needed—and that always what he needed always seemed to appear where he least expected it.”

Peter guffaws. “And your first thought wasn’t that he was proper hopped up?”

Lily’s laugh is high and clear. “Oh, certainly—but I went and did what he said, if only to humor myself—and, well, I’ve always found it rather difficult to ignore the suggestion of a professor.” This smile she spares Remus. I notice it’s one she often reserves only for him, the edges of her eyes crinkling, easily, as easily as he returns it. “Anyway, I went up there, expecting to be made a fool, but a door _did_ appear, right across from the tapestry. And I went in, and the room took the shape of my bedroom, back home. It could’ve been the real thing, that’s how perfect it was.” She shrugs. “I suspect this isn’t information Dumbledore discloses freely, or often. So I doubt too many others know about it.”

“I’m burning through, I’m so jealous,” I say, my voice coming out a bit lower than I want.

Sirius shoots me an overjoyed face. “Mate, she’s not likely _shagging_ Al, take it down a notch.”

“That’s not—”

Lily doesn’t bother hiding her amusement, head leaned back against the bed behind her. Eyes aglitter.

_This girl._

I restart, disregarding the blazing look. “It’s—I just can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this information for _years_ and haven’t told a single soul about it.”

“Who says I haven’t told a single soul, James Potter?”

“Who else knows?”

She maintains eye contact with me. “I took Owen there, once.”

The words hit me in the chest like a snowball: the heat of impact, then the cold of melting.

“Oh, great, so now probably every Ravenclaw knows about it.” Sirius tugs ruthlessly at his tie, till it pulls loose. He chucks it at Lily. “Nice going, Evans.”

“Fucking—” she seizes the tie and flings it away. “I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me, Sirius Black, or with Ravenclaws, who are not so dull or awful as you might think. And, _besides_ —I made him promise not to tell anyone else.” She glances at me quickly, then down to her fingers, clenched around her knees. “And at the time, we were in good sorts, and I believed him when he said he’d keep it a secret.”

A lingering, unpleasant image of Lily and Owen _somewhere_ scratches ruthlessly at the back of my head, but I will myself to push it away, knowing it’s immature to fixate.

“Ravenclaws knowing or not doesn’t matter, really, does it?” Peter intervenes. “Is that what this paper means, then? That room, on the 12th, 8 at night?”

“Suppose...” I begin, half-of-an-idea percolating in the front of my head. “Suppose after all, only someone who knew how to get into that place would be able to attend this meeting.”

I look up and Lily is already parsing through my look. “You think—”

I shrug _maybe_.

Sirius whines, “Can we not have this psychic eye-conversation?”

Remus is nodding, though, right along with us. “Massively strange way for him to contact just you, Lily,” his laugh, rueful. “But then he’s massively strange, himself.”

“Who?” Sirius whips his head between us.

“Dumbledore,” Peter says, exasperated. “Keep _up_ , Pads.”

Sirius gives Peter the finger.

Lily treads an aimless finger along her wand, which lays on the carpet in front of her folded knees. “It’s awfully far-fetched.”

“Every endeavor this lot have blown me into over the years has been _keenly_ far-fetched,” Remus intones.

And Sirius, eyebrow quirked, “ _Blown_ you into—”

With almost unseemly dexterity, Remus flicks his wand from under his leg and sends a wordless cloud of blue light in Sirius’ direction—which, in turn, erupts in a cloud of smoke around his head and elicits a shrill, quick, shriek. When the smoke clears, his precious hair is tinged with sparkling embers, root to tip. He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Yeah. I deserved that.”

“You deserved worse.”

Their stares, then, seemed less like anger, more like something unresolved. Something to _be_ resolved.

The closer I observe this, the more I feel—for the first time I can physically pinpoint—how complicated the strange new intimacy between them is. A dynamic to which Peter and I are not invited. It leaves a cloud of smoke in my own lungs; something to chew on, later. I make a mental note to get Sirius alone, and soon, to talk over his intentions.

Lily sends a wordless cleanup spell Sirius’ way; his hair re-forms its perfect inky ends. She lends him a sardonic look when he says, “ _Honored_ , Evans.”

“So. We’re doing this?” Remus asks, folding his hands together, looking mostly at me.

I shrug. “Can’t see the harm. We can use the map, see if there’s any activity night of. I mean, if this is actually something, and something Order-related, then I want to check it out.”

“Agreed,” Remus nods. “Regardless of this being true, we’ve still got Lily’s really shaky O’Connor route.”

“It should be noted that I _really_ don’t want to have to talk to O’Connor,” Lily adds, scrunching her nose. “Skeevy bloke.”

“He splinched himself _immediately_ in Apparation lessons, remember?” Peter smiles widely. “His nose has definitely looked odd, since. Adds admirably to the skeeve.”

“The _skeeve_ ,” Lily murmurs, grinning back.

“Okay, well, lovely chat, all,” I stand up, and my legs—so long in the same position—protest. I rove a finger between Sirius and Remus. “Please don’t, er, kill each other?”

Sirius shrugs. “No promises.”

Remus lends a hand to Lily as she stands up, retrieving her wand and robes. Sirius stands, too, and rotates a look to me. “Kind of you to take a break from shagging to come around with the blokes. Not sure you two could stand to live a day without really going at it, and not even in a hidden way, always, just the _looks_ are enough—”

“Listen, fuck off, Black, would you?” Lily smiles calmly at him. “Night, Remus, Peter.”

Nothing is better than the stupefied look I catch on Sirius’ face just as I turn to follow her out.

***

Lily is quiet on our walk back to the Heads quarters. I’m not sure if it’s Sirius’ dumb jab, or the memory of her fight with Snape, or of Owen and the Room of Requirement, or the idea of the Order, in general, or the war, or something even separate from any of that, something I’ve no pulse on.

I don’t push her on it. Her stance tells me she’s coming to something, in her own time. She keeps tucking her hair behind an ear, arms curled in around her body. I recognize the firm line of her jaw, the way she walks just slightly ahead of me. It’s a companionable silence, anyway, comfortable. To walk with her is—has always been—enough for me.

We’re just around the bend toward the portrait when she turns, asks, “We could go a day without shagging, couldn’t we?”

I look her way carefully, find a pair of blazing eyes. “Certainly we’ve...” I wrack my mind for any recent day that didn’t involve some lovely little interlude, a common-room quickie, an early morning tirade. The moments, stacked up for analysis, are plenty—and are, indeed, at _least_ daily. “Is this about Black, saying all that? He’s a git, Lils, he—”

“Well, partially, I suppose, but I was just sort of going over it all, and wanted to know if you thought we could do it. Go a whole day. No shag.”

Some small fire here; a bite in the tone. I look at her again—she’s appraising me closely. Perhaps she’s not touching me on purpose. Maybe, this a challenge. I dip my toes into the idea. “I mean, certainly _I_ could restrain myself, one day, no problem.”

Lily doesn’t miss a step. “That so?”

“I’ve remarkable self-restraint, when necessary.”

“It’s just funny,” she walks closer to me now, “that you should say so—because I was going to say that certainly _I_ could hold out if the situation called for it.”

We’ve landed in front of our dour-faced lady. She glares at me only briefly now before accepting Lily’s password, swinging open.

“Can’t help but disagree with you there, Evans, if I’m being honest.”

“And I so prize your honesty.” She pauses on the arm of the couch, pins me with fiery eyes. “But if I’m allowed, I’ll push right back.”

“Huh.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, edge the toe of my shoe at hers. Raise an innocent face. “Seems we’re at a right impasse, then.”

The heat of even this look from her: Unreal. I can see her throat move. I can see the brilliant thrill it gives her, to speak without saying, to have brought this up at all.

Her mouth carves a lethal, close-lipped smile. “Of course, there _is_ a way to find out who’s right.”

I dip down onto the table, opposite her. “Go on.”

“No sex tomorrow.” Her voice is breathy. “See who cracks first.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And your stakes?” Her eyes flash, and I have to I laugh. “Oh, c’mon, Evans, I’m a Quidditch player—and, for that matter, a Marauder. I _thrive_ on stakes.”

“Fine, then.” She stands up off the couch, walks toward me; runs a perilous finger down the side of my neck. “If I win...you’re going to use that lovely cloak of yours to finger-fuck me in some hazardously public place.”

My pulse really skives off—and the air seems to stops, mid-breath. “ _Finger-fuck_ you?”

“You heard me,” she murmurs, knee pressing gently between my legs until they part, allow her between. “Your stakes?”

Her finger slides down each button of my shirt. Just touching. I toy absently with the edge of her skirt. “If I win, I think I’d like you to suck me off in the stacks.” For a moment, the crease in her brow, the quickening breath, betrays her. I stand up, suddenly, frame consuming her, and she has to look up. “And I think I’d like that to be sans-cloak.”

Her lips part. Our bodies still. Dangerous, new tension.

She holds out a hand to me. I shake the hand.

She smiles, halfway. I find my own electric exhilaration mirrored, here in her face, in the hot breath on my chin. Our hands fall away but her mouth tilts upward, for just a moment; brushes tediously on mine. The whole of my nervous system screams. She runs the tip of her tongue along the crest of my upper lip—then retracts, almost instantly.

Steps away.

“Think I’ll sleep in my own bed, tonight.” Her smile, a dagger. “Tomorrow?”

I am hardly capable of containing the heat that flares my person—but I try. I say, “Tomorrow.”

***

_Lily_

The feeling of waking up in my own bed, alone, is soothed over immediately by the memory of The Bet.

I take a long hot shower and formulate a dozen and half ways that I can have James hard with just a skillfully-timed whisper—and then try, for a sobering moment, to remember that there’s also a Charms essay to finish, an Alchemy lab to worry over, Prefect schedules to review and approve, a general population of Hogwarts students to oversee and keep in order, and a Dorcas and Marlene that keep begging for a study period alone with me.

I suppose it’s all enough distraction from any and all thought of a day without watching the slant of hunger light in James’ eyes, feel his fingers edge the sensitive curve of my hip, wonder thrillingly if he’s going for a _Lily_ or an _Evans_ type of finish—both good, just different.

And it doesn’t mean to say it won’t end in something like that: Given, that is, the obvious fact that I’m certain I’ll have him on his knees come day’s end.

Surely, he’s a room over, thinking precisely the same thing about me.

I set in on preliminary efforts to my own cause: Hair charmed into loose curls, swept into a loosely clipped twist, ready at a moment’s notice to be released, pour down my shoulders appealingly. A spot of pink to the cheeks and gloss to the lips, a sweep of emphasizing mascara. On my wrists and neck-pulse, I dab a flowery perfume I rarely wear, jasmine flirting with rose flirting with wisteria. I don a delicate, nearly see-through black bra. I do not put on the matching knickers. Instead, I tuck them neatly into the pocket of my robes. Ammunition. I hike my skirt a bit higher on my hips. Slip into my nicest Mary Janes, the ones with a teeny heel. 

When it’s all said and done, I catch a look at myself in the mirror. Nod at myself admiringly: _James Potter bait._

An irresponsible anticipation flutters through me as I descend the stairs—but, when I reach the common room, James isn’t down. I reassess, not anticipating the loss of an immediate advantage. To make up for it, I brace myself on the edge of the couch, as I sat last night, make sure a few pleasantly strands of hair frame my face, and that my legs are extended outward to their best advantage, ankles crossed.

When James comes traipsing down the stairs not a minute later, he flashes me what I think is a far-too-casual smile given the day we’re about to have. “Morning.” Before I can stop him, he’s kissed me full on the lips; and is gone before I can protest, or reciprocate.

I must be blinking, stupidly, so I readjust myself, clear my throat. “Morning.”

“Sorry I’m late, was having a bit of a wank, if you must know,” he’s shooting off, as if this is a regular occurrence and shouldn’t come as a surprise, tugging on his robes as he talks and heads off toward the portrait hole. “Devastatingly easy when I think about any time you’ve done the same, and maybe I ought to be embarrassed by how quickly I manage to—” he turns, at the precipice of the portrait, looks back at me, stunted on the couch. “Coming, Evans?”

My initial surprise at his head-start—in more ways than one—churns, slowly, into a thickening resolve to appear unaffected. This is the game. Acting as though _thinking of him thinking of me while he wanks_ isn’t affecting, in the least.

I stand from the couch with purposeful sloth; join him in the dim almost-corridor. Knock the portrait open with a knuckle. “I see this smug half-grin of yours,” I murmur, reaching to brush the same knuckle up against said smug half-grin. “But you ought to know,” the knuckle slips, slides the length of his throat. Under, a small spasm. Shadowed eyes. I watch his fingers tense on the strap of his bag. “That you’re going to have to try much, _much_ harder than that to crack me, Potter.”

I leave him then, through the portrait hole.

After a moment, he follows.

***

_James_

Breakfast begins as always. Lily and I settle in on opposite sides of the Gryffindor table, greeting our friends and starting in on conversations about class and the state of the fried eggs and the bizarrely specific precision with which Peter can recite the prologue of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_.

Lily goes about her normal routine of skimming the Prophet, pausing on articles of interest or import, gaze taking long journeys down each page, fingers smoothing back the edges. She pours herself a cup of coffee, adds a tiny scoop of sugar and a large spoonful of cream. She stirs the spoon with a subtle spin of her finger.

This all appearing rather business as usual, I conduct myself accordingly. I spread a dash butter and jam onto two pieces of toast and spear a mess of the fried eggs in discussion. I’m pouring out a glass of orange juice when I feel her foot—shoeless—rest atop my own. I maintain concentration on the juice pouring, and take a hearty sip, attempting to establish myself as not really caring about the toes that are now inching, quite slowly, up my calf.

“Reckon we’ll have that extra practice you keep threatening?” Sirius asks from next to me.

“What, today?”

“No, todays’ regular, the extra is supposedly Thursday. Don’t you make the schedule yourself, mate?”

“Oh, um, I dunno, I can’t just—you’re not going to trick my plan out of me, I’m not so easily manipulated.”

“No?” Lily’s voice is quiet and flung barely in my direction, her face hidden by the Prophet; the foot is now along my other calf, rotating a lethargic figure-eight.

Like the champion I am, I ignore her. “I think we’re doing fine game-wise. It’s really a matter of Webster and Bishop at this point, seeing who’s first string.”

“Meaning _I’m_ first-string? Not Archer? Saturday?” Dorcas jumps in, torn from a chat with Ingrid, excited eyes on me.

“If you’d keep it down,” I implore, snaking my eyes down the table to make sure Rhys isn’t sitting right next to us, listening in on the whole thing, “Then I would tell you yes, and _beg_ you to keep your mouth shut about it, otherwise I’ll hear it from him, and you _know_ how loud he can get.”

“Beg? Loud?” Lily muses, hidden by her strategic newspaper. Her foot is advancing into dodgy territory, skating oh-so-slowly along the inner-knee.

No one else, evidently, notices any of this.

Dorcas smiles down at me electrically. “Fucking hell, right on, Potter, you won’t be disappointed, I swear.”

“I wouldn’t expect—” The precarious, insistent foot has finally landed right where it really oughtn’t at the Merlin forsaken _breakfast table_. I cough, scooting forward on the bench as subtly as I can. “Er, I wouldn’t expect to be disappointed, and that’s why—er, that’s why you’ll be first string.”

“We doing our project in study or after dinner?” Mary asks Lily from down the table.

“So long as I finish everything else as expected,” Lily says, folding the Prophet down to the front page and removing the spoon from her coffee. “I should be able to do afternoon. Good for you?”

Her foot, though indecently placed, has stilled.

“Brilliant, yeah,” Mary returns. “I’ve done notes and initial maths.”

I shift a hand beneath the table, find her ankle, take a soft grip.

To her credit, she does not visibly react. “Oh, lovely, thanks. I’m shit at initials.”

“Don’t have to say that twice,” Mary laughs, a sharp, knowing laugh. “Reckon Merrill will be back today? Can’t even guess at what’s keep her for so bloody long. And I’m not _not_ concerned for her wellbeing, mind you, but I _am_ ruddy desperate for her photographic memory back.”

I lean forward so my fingers can creep past the ankle, stroke the base of her leg. Her toes extend, just slightly, and just the smallest forward motion is enough to bring on another cough, and the slightest, almost imperceptible twinkle, in the corner of her eyes, when Remus gives me a strange look, asks, “Cold, Prongs?”

I set my jaw in a firm line and meet her eyes, head-on.

“No,” I answer, turning to give him a reassuring grin. “Just caught the ‘ole toast down the wrong pipe.”

Under the table, Lily’s foot slips from its unconscionably precarious position. Aboveground, she reaches for her coffee and sips. Blinks at me slowly.

“Something about you, this morning,” Marlene is saying to Lily, leaning past Sirius’ body to stare at her full-on. “You’re glowing. Isn’t she glowing, Potter?”

She looks—as I’d suspected she would—incalculably beautiful. Her hair’s done up in some effortless knot, pieces floating down here and there; the planes of her cheeks, already so prone to coloring, pinkened; a sheen on her lips making it a mouth that asks to be tasted; eyes framed in demure, curling lashes; and she smells, somehow, as though she’s walked through a field of flowers under a swathe of bright summer sun.

And there’s something else—some untouchable vitality, there, in the creased corner of her eyes, in the tremor at her lips, in the slip of her fingers as she touches her own wrist, slowly. It pulses over her, alive: A hard and glittery conviction. 

“Always.”

I watch her slow blinking, her slow smile, and try to remind myself I’ve won Quidditch games with worse odds than how this day’s begun.

But, then, Lily isn’t some Quidditch game. She is—often and eternally—a force to be reckoned with.

***

_Lily_

Given our physical separation in Charms, the period slides by uneventfully. I allow myself to let my guard down, slightly, engage in the lesson, and by the time the class draws to an end, I am thinking more on complex implications of performing Legilimency than on how I can next be an absolute prick tease. 

The consequence for such a foolish lapse is me trailing Dorcas from the room as if nothing is amiss, chatting amiably with her on our grand improvement in nonverbals, leaving my senses wide open for the assault when it lands: A hand curving along my lower back, underneath my robes, gripping softly but firmly—and his easy, arrogant smile as I turn, inhale.

He acknowledges Dorcas with a nod. “I’m unforgivably rude, but could I steal Lily, just a nip?”

“Again, for the zillionith time, I’m not Marlene, okay? Do I look like I’ve got a dagger hidden up my corset?” She laughs wildly at this assessment of our friend’s murderous potential—and even her potential to wear a corset beneath robes. “Steal away. I’m to the loo, either way.”

And then she’s gone and we’re out in the flood of the corridor and there’s nothing and no one to save me from his fingers stroking the treacherous meeting of skirt and sweater, and though there is fabric between him and the skin in my imagination there isn’t; and _this_ is why I can’t let something as frivolous as learning cloud my mind.

“Hi, Lily.” He is cut close to my ear. “How are you?”

I will not clear my throat and I will not look at him. “Well, James, and you?”

“Day is going swimmingly.”

“Is it? Much to your plan?”

“Plan? I’ve no plan. Only an honest heart.”

My laugh: Unbelieving. “Bollocks, Head Boy.”

We’ve reached the forked in the hall that will lead in one direction toward Transfiguration, but James compels me, instead, fingers-warm-on-waist, to a darkened alcove betwixt the second-floor landing and a Muggle Studies classroom.

“James—” I start, but he’s cornered me, effectively, back against wall, both of his disobedient palms pressing now to such a daring spot. I put my own hands on his chest, if only to keep from further approach.

He asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Come on. Just one kiss.”

“ _Just one kiss_. As though you’ve no ulterior motive.”

“I don’t!”

He does a hell of a job playing the perfectly blameless bloke. His eyes warm and golden, hair brushing temple in that outrageously effortless, gorgeous way, mouth curling a smile that hits me, without fail, right between the ribs. I urge myself not to stare at the triangle of skin caught between his shirt collar and neck, or at the sturdy line of his shoulders, or at his lips; _especially_ his lips.

“Do you think I’m thick?”

“No, I think you’re hellishly smart.”

“They’ll be no kissing.”

But still, I make no move to leave. I rather like the feeling of his lean against me, pining mapped so clearly along his face, my thighs touched oh-so-gently along his.

“There might be some kissing,” he murmurs, and ducks so near my lips that my inhale seems to pluck from his exhale.

“You’re going to try and snog me into submission,” I protest, though it sounds weak even to my ears, and here are my hands, spreading up around his shoulders, digging into his robes.

“No.”

“You’re going to be flirty, and you’re going to slip me some tongue.”

“I’ll do neither.”

The fizzle is so delicious it hurts. I can feel his lips on mine as if they already are. Around the treacherous corner, the din of peers flitting for one class to the next.

I concede. “Just one.”

He does, in fairness, keep to this. But this one kiss is wickedly slow, and soft, and arduous, and dizzying, and sweet in a way I did not anticipate, and I am so distracted by his obedience that I forget, again, my lethal weakness for his sincerity and adoration, because in the middle of the slow soft arduous dizzying kiss his hands move cunningly into distinct arse-territory, my skirt shifting under robes, and I notice this at the same moment his tongue betrays my trust and penetrates the barrier of my lips, and for a split second—a paralyzing moment—I just feel the feeling, and am washed through by such immediate gratification that a pleased whine curls my throat, and that’s it: That’s all it takes to be ripped from my foolish melting and realize I’ve gone and walked right into an idiotically transparent seduction.

I push him away immediately, seizing his hands and throwing them from my waist. “You incorrigible, manipulative, exasperating—”

He is smiling, thrilled. “—can’t say I’ve heard these descriptors from you in reference to me since last year, really.”

Lungs heaving, I swallow, heavily, to recover from my own idiotic fall. “I said no flirting, I said no tongue, I said no kissing and you—”

“Say, Lils, you’re going a bit red, there, face-wise, looking a little flushed—are you flustered? Has something got you going?”

I want so badly to wipe the haughty look off his smug, handsome face. I want to push up against the opposite wall and have him whining for me just the same.

 _But_ _the game, Lily, the game._

And, as it goes, Transfiguration.

“You’ve cheated, and it’s very rude.”

“ _Cheated?_ I’m sorry, there was no going over _rules_ at any point here, other than the one—”

“I’m going to class.”

“Funny, so am I.”

In the still and the staring that precedes the actual _going to class_ , I sense, with uneager precision, the possibility, here, that we could both throw off the veneer and a certain measure of pride and run off to find some way to do exactly what we both want to do so bad.

But I am stubborn, and he is arrogant, and the mutual antagonism is near excruciating. _Combustible._ Until the flares catch flame, there’ll be an almost painful tremble in knowing that the explosion—inevitable—will make all torments pay off to absurdly sumptuous ends. 

“Potter.” I nod my head, oddly, professionally.

He grins stupidly. “Evans.”

We go to class.

***

_Lily_

“...load of owl dung if he thinks he’s _better_ at it than I am, women _know_ women best, it’s an actual irrefutable fact.”

“Well, then _you_ speak to him about it, I don’t bloody care.”

“Merlin’s tits, like I’d do that. Can you see the look on his face? Blugered.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that look before.”

“Should I talk to Potter about it, too?”

I am only half-listening, engaged in a mindless reverie of staring at just the same boy, across the room, watching his fingers hassle his hair, over, and over, and over: An unbelievably basic attack on my senses.

The motion is a variation on what he did for the entirety of Transfiguration, not an hour before. Our assigned seats, across the room from one another, made his assault simple: Fingers through hair, a _known_ weakness; a finger along the lip, a thumb along the jaw, other _known_ weaknesses; the rolling up of sleeves, the revealing of forearms, a _catastrophically known_ weakness; and even some improvised measures, brutal in austerity and effect: the close-mouthed smile, dipping up from below, the lethargic blinking, a subtle lean back into the chair, regarding me with what I could only term _sex eyes_ , impenetrable gold sparking so hotly to my figure I was forced to look away, desperate to avoid the daggering idea that he was undressing me, piece by piece, with the very same eyes.

The Transfiguration lesson was lost to me, completely—much to my own mortification.

“Should...talk about what?”

Ingrid shakes her head at me. She’s sporting new hair today, a pretty shade of clementine that accentuates the already dreamy effect of soft brown eyes. “ _About_ hunkering down between your legs and making you see gods.”

I turn a severe look on her, and Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas burst into hushed laughter.

“If so, I’ve got a solid five things I could tell him just off the top of my head—”

“He doesn’t actually need help in that area, thank you very much,” I roll my eyes. And now, of course, I’ve the unfortunate pleasure of thinking of any time James has done the very act she implies, this _hunkering down_ , this _making me see gods_ , and my skin rudely erupts in the memory, swathes of goosebumps and a flare of heat down my shoulders and back.

I cross my legs; quell the unnecessary sting.

“Blimey, this defensive _tone_ on her!” Marlene’s eyes gone wide, shifting around to glance at James where he sits with the other Marauders. “How often is he going down on you, Evans? Tell us right bloody now.”

The maddening part is I’m stuck fast on the image of him curling my skirt in his hand, shoving it up as I fall guilelessly back onto the common room couch, whimpering uncontrollably as his mouth usurps my underwear in favor of my cunt and his fingers curl my thighs so firmly there were small bruises, after.

I give Marlene no such pleasure as answering her question. I close my eyes, lay my head down in my hands for a brief reprieve. “I’ve—I’m going to find Goshwak’s volume, Mary, okay? Be back.”

“Oh my _gods_ , she’s going to _cool off_ in the stacks, I’m _wrecked_!”

I ignore Marlene further, pushing back from my chair and starting off in the direction of the upper stacks—being sure, as I pass, to avoid any eye contact with James fucking Potter.

***

_James_

I follow her into the stacks because I know she wants me to find her there, in apparent need of assistance, stretching upward on tiptoes, reaching for a book far too high up on the shelf. A lovely swathe of thigh peeks out as her skirt rises, minutely, with the reach. 

I walk into battle: Step up behind her, arm reaching along her arm, fingers curling along her fingers, my height advantage the clear-cut winner. I grab hold of the volume she desires.

Her body pauses. The alignment here: A hazardous liaison. The second her hips shift, subtly back—the arc of her bum pressed to a distinctly fraught area of my anatomy—I am sent into a sensory spiral.

Knowing, of course, that I’ve willingly tossed myself over this edge.

Lily snatches the book from my hand and turns, swiftly. I let my now-free hand fall, casually, to grip a shelf at her eye-level. She’s trying desperately to hide it, but her chest rises unevenly with breath, and even in the poorly lit corridor between shelves I can see the red that stains her cheeks, disclosing her own provocation.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But I need this book more than you do.”

“So you admit it: You’re needier, in this moment.” 

She leans back against the books as I lean forward, into her. Her face raises to mine confidently. “I would never admit such a thing.” A knee, in clear opposition, comes between my legs.

“As it happens, neither would I.”

But I’m inclining toward her still, a display of my real and prying neediness; there’s a tightness in my limbs, tugging, from all the agonizing thoughts of her I’ve thought all day, failing in any way to ignore the idea of her, the sight of her, the memory of her—and never mind it’s only the _bloody afternoon_.

I watch her blink up at me, slowly; I stop my face not a breath from hers. Her lips hint at, but don’t divulge, a tiny upward twist. “I know what you want.”

I know it will kill me to hear. “What do I want?”

“You want to kiss me,” she begins, rubbing her lips together. One of her arms remains locked around the book, but the other comes to the middle of my chest. “And reach under my shirt, find out what kind of bra I’m wearing.” Her hand, distressingly warm, moves down over my stomach, languid. “And slide your fingers between my legs.” Her fingers slip to the waist of my pants, edging my belt. “And touch me, right here, where anyone could walk by and see.”

Her hand rises, quickly, and rests, for a moment, at my agitated pulse; this gives her immense satisfaction. Quantifiable evidence of arousal. Ever the scientist. Now fingers cull my neck, pull my ear to her mouth. She kisses the meeting of cheek and neck: Once, twice. “You want,” she whispers. “To turn me around, right here, right against this stack, and fuck me. You want to be rough.”

Her vision and its demoralizing accuracy. The angle in particular: I’ve craved and never acted on, long before today. The phantom feeling of her skin; the phantom sound of her pleasure; the phantom indulgence of having her, here, in such a lascivious position: it coils me up and strangles.

My breath, caught, painful, leaves its wretched home; becomes a groan of acute devastation.

“And you want to, but you can’t hide how much you want me right now,” she whispers, knee taking an unfortunately slow trip closer to the site of said arousal. My inhale is quick and revealing.

She retreats from my ear; smirks up at me, brazen.

Going into this day, I knew the self-restraint I bragged about was carnival magic—complete artifice. She will best me every time. She has bested me long before this moment. She will best me long after.

But: There _is_ one thing she always forgets to count on. Only one thing I can hope to hold over her.

I step away. Her warm hand falls along my neck and leaves me, too.

“I do want that.” I say plainly.

If only a sliver, her assertive expression falters. A soft flashing in emerald eyes.

“But something you forget, Evans,” I admonish gently, hands slipping into my pockets. “Is that I’ve spent years wanting you, in every way. And waiting.” She grips tighter the book in her hands. “I am practiced in patience for you. Maybe not free of frustration, but practiced.”

Her mouth parts.

“So I might not be pleased with passing up the opportunity to have you, right here, right now, in that exact way, but it’s enough to know that I _will_ have you,” my voice quieting, ardent, “and soon.”

I leave her with her book. And I hear, quietly, behind, a strangled breath of her own, sourced of the same exasperation that devours me, mind, body, and spirit.

***

_James_

En route to the great hall for supper, Peter asks Lily and me if we’ve had a row.

“What makes you ask?” Lily wonders, voice free of insinuation whether he’s right or wrong.

“Well, for one, you’re not standing next to one another right now, which is strange,” he points out, looking at each of us, on either side of him and Remus. “And I haven’t so much as seen you hold hands all day, which is unusual, as well—and further, I keep catching these very intense stares, like you’re waiting for the other to say something first.”

Lily smiles over at me, unabashed. “We’re not fighting.” She steps deftly back, re-joins me at the end of the group. Slides her hand through mine.

Remus turns to Peter. “Told you.”

“You’re good at emotional observation, Moony, I _know_ that, but the physical indicators were _not_ adding up, ’s all I’m saying.”

I rub my thumb down her fingers. For a second, I feel the guise of competition shift; her eyes on mine and there in her eyes, real admiration. She blinks. Seems to be weighing her options. Is she thinking, as I am, that maybe a little kiss, in the name of appearances, couldn’t hurt? I whisper, “Maybe a small kiss, in the name of appearances, couldn’t hurt.”

“No kissing.” She answers, though she seems disappointed about it, herself. “Last time was no good.”

“Last time _was_ good.”

“You know,” squeezing my hand, “what I mean.”

“—never ask you to compromise your morals, but I might compel you to rethink the situation from Padfoot’s point of view. He’s near failing, have you seen his recent scores?”

“I’m not helping him cheat. I’ve never helped him cheat before, and I’m not starting now just because he thinks our _something special_ is grounds for illegal coursework.”

Remus and Peter’s conversation fades as their trajectory continues forward into the great hall, and Lily stalls ours, pulling me along to the side of the entrance, into a shallow reprieve from the crowd clambering toward dinner. “Something you should know,” she starts. “I keep forgetting to tell you.”

“What’s on?”

She rubs her lips together for a long second and drops my hand. “I’m not wearing any knickers.”

She pays me close attention as I digest the information. My initial reaction, of course, is disbelief, followed immediately by distrust. “Rubbish.”

She smiles. “I thought you might say so.” She reaches into the side of her robes, retrieves something. Takes my hand, sure to shield the exchange from prying eyes with her body, and places something soft in my fingers.

A quick glance confirms my initial, and worst, suspicion: A pair of lacy black knickers.

I close my fingers around the fabric. Try to avoid an uneven tremor in my voice as I say, “You could still be bluffing. This could be a decoy pair.”

With a pause that is as cruel as it is long, Lily gives me eyes that I rarely see outside of the bedroom. Reaching back, she unclips her hair from the frustrating coil it’s lived in all day; a verifiable flood of curls follows—and with it, something in me cracks, hard.

I want to slip my fingers through the flood and drown in it.

She places the clip in her bag. Regards me coolly, and without remorse. “I guess, then, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

I watch her turn and walk off, into the great hall, red hair bouncing behind, skirt flaring mockingly with every step.

I stuff the knickers in my own robe pocket and take a hard minute of self-evaluation to decide if I’ve the capacity to walk into dinner and sit next to her knowing there’s likely been nothing between her hips and the rest of the world save that flippant skirt for the _entire fucking day_.

Innumerable deep breaths and one harsh chat with my lower half later, I do just that. And though it is risky, I’m unwilling to allow Lily the idea that she’s rattled me, so I sit next to her, slide an arm around her back, kiss her cheek.

“He’s overcompensating,” Peter whispers to Remus.

“He is, isn’t he?” Lily muses, sliding closer to me, her own hand sliding up along my neck. Our thighs meet. My pulse stutters. Heat all down the back of my shoulders and back. Against my better interest, I look down.

Her skirt rides halfway up her thigh.

“For what?” Mary wonders through a spoonful of soup. “Total lack of composure in Potions, earlier?”

“Why, what’d he do in Potions?” Sirius wonders, grinning like a real maniac.

Mary, Marlene, and Remus all share a pre-meditated laugh, one Lily impolitely joins in on.

I begin to protest any retelling, but Marlene beats me to the punch. “Evans whispered something in his ear and he set his cauldron on fire bloody _immediately_.”

“Should’ve seen Slughorn’s face, I thought he was going to bowl over then and there with the horror of it,” Mary cackles, face going red.

“And Potter just stood there! Just _stood_ there! Slug just _screaming_ at him. Dunno how he’s still Head Boy, at this point, honestly, just based on the loss of ego _alone_.” Marlene grips at Mary’s arm, the memory allegedly so sidesplitting that she needs a physical anchor to hold her down from the ceiling. 

“Never been more disappointed in myself for quitting that class,” Sirius shakes his head, turning to face me in glee. “What’d she say to you, mate?”

My hand drops from Lily’s back. She is smirking, without a doubt, but I don’t look to find out. “I don’t remember. I blacked out.”

“Fucking _hell_ , Evans, what’d you say to him?” Sirius’ eyes blaze on Lily, now, who just shrugs innocently.

“Nothing I’d care to repeat at the dinner table.”

Even Peter joins in on this batch of unmitigated laughter.

Somewhere in the middle of the jubilation at my expense, I touch her thigh.

Her fingers go tense on my neck.

“I find gobs of new respect for you every day,” Sirius tells her blissfully, wiping at his eyes. “I pride myself on James-specific torment, but you’ve obviously tapped a market I’m powerless to.”

The conversation shifts eagerly to myriad other times I’ve made a Lily-related fool of myself. Like the good friends that they are, the group doesn’t limit themselves to current events, quite unafraid to dig into the archives of my best and greatest pre-seventh year attempts to win the caged heart of Lily Evans.

Beneath the quips and howling laughter: Lily leans across me, over the table, to fetch a biscuit, chest landing heavily on my arm, her “ _oh, sorry_ ,” the most unapologetic thing I’ve ever heard, her smile sparkling as she sees my reaction to her nearness—but I’ve fingers on her thigh, and I tighten the grip, and she swallows, almost undetectably, as she retreats.

There is something I have to know. 

Dorcas is waxing poetic on the time second year I charmed a bouquet of flowers to scream “Lily” every time they bloomed. My fingers are sliding up past her skirt. Lily reminds everyone that I gave her said enchanted bouquet during class, and she’d been humiliated having to explain to Professor Glass why her bag kept screaming _Lily!_ Her skin is warm; it flushes as my fingers creep upward. Marlene says she caught Lily looking at the bouquet later, in the dorm, and saying it was disgusting, but the charm was one she didn’t know, and if she didn’t hate me so powerfully, with every inch of her being, she would ask me to teach her how to do it. Finally, I find where the edge of her knickers should start: Where they _should_ be. One finger slips, further, finds out exactly what I’ve dreaded is, indeed true.

Absolutely no knickers to speak of.

Lily looks at me for just one second. Triumphant. _Told you._

I remove my hand surreptitiously, quickly. Lean forward, face-down, into my dinner. Her fingers on my neck stroke slowly along my hairline. 

I focus every ounce of my energy on _not getting hard at the dinner table._

***

_Lily_

James gets back from Quidditch practice and walks across the common room like absolutely nothing is amiss—says something like “hullo, Lils” or “bloody cold out there,” something I barely hear, having since looked up from my hunched studying and taken in his appearance: Sweaty. Hair matted along brow in damp curls, face flush, cheeks swatched in red, jersey and pants tight around torso and thighs and ass— _holy hell his ass_. My breath swells and knots in my throat and I try to swallow, try to control the frantic jolt of my pulse. He says something like “alright?” or “something in your throat, Lils?” to which I can’t respond, not even a bit—I’m thinking about all the times I’ve seen him look like this, but from above, or below—but I banish the thought as quickly as it comes, I can’t think of that, not with his knowing stare, this pleased light in his eyes, him knowing as well as me that I’ve been blind to this play seeing as he’s never _once_ before come back to the common room in such a state; never _once_ returned post-practice without showering in the locker rooms first.

_Godamn irredeemable son of a Potionmaster._

“Potions?”

I stare. The question, the question....slow connection from the question to the work in front of me, the forgotten task. “Er—not yet. I’m—Arithmancy.”

“Library? Potions?”

I stare. Blankly. Use every remaining ounce of willpower to ignore the spot of abdomen revealed as he tugs his jersey up to wipe his sweaty nose.

“Library, Evans—place with all the books. Potions? The subject you love best?”

My blood is boiling. “I get it, _yes_.”

“Good. I’ll shower, then be down.”

He grips his hands to the chair next to mine, leans forward. My throat catches, and for a terrible moment I’m afraid he’s going to do something drastic, like remove his shirt, ask me to resist, or take my tongue between his teeth, ask me to resist—but he just reaches a thumb out, brushes it quickly along my mouth. “Bit of drool, just there.”

He bounds up the stairs.

It’s not much better when he returns because all I’ve managed to do is stare dumbly at my unfinished Arithmancy and try, very, very hard, not to close my eyes and see only the obvious outline of his prick through skintight Quidditch trousers.

“Ready?”

I am _not_ going to meet his eyes. I forsake my outer robes and sweater as he has, shove work into my bag, shoulder the bag. Flee the common room. James jostles to keep up with my rushed exit, my purposeful gate. His entire frame buzzes of success. He thinks he’s almost there. We face the labyrinth of roving stairs; step from one to the other in silence, all the way down. We exit on the first-floor landing.

I am ignoring him so pointedly. I am thinking of him so pointedly.

“You know how I knew I really got to you, in Transfiguration?”

No looking and no watching. No answering. The halls are near empty. We round the corner of the east hall to the library, pass a pair of Prefects on patrol. I don’t remember their names, but I wave, half-heartedly.

James barrels on, undeterred, once we’re past the Prefects. “You were taking a few bent fingers along your throat, sort of back-and-forth. You might not have even known you were doing it. But I recognized it—I’d seen it before. And I couldn’t place it, for a bit, but then I remembered. You’d do it over the summer, in the beginning, when we’d hang about, and sometimes under a pretense of just _hanging about_ , and then I’d catch that little motion, bent fingers on your throat, and it drove me wild. I wanted to be the fingers, or the throat, or both.”

I spin on my heel, suddenly, stop him in his tracks with a palm to the chest. “Appealing to sentimentality, Potter, really?” He opens his mouth, to defend himself, maybe, or refute the claim, but I cut him off. “I can be sentimental too, yeah?”

He wants to smile—jaw tense, cheeks caving inward—but holds off.

“I spent,” I begin, voice low. “This _summer_ you speak of laying on the floor of my bedroom wondering how in the hell it came to be that I couldn’t think of anything besides the hands of a boy that for _years_ made my life at school a genuine hell. I’d think back on the years in question, how you didn’t care one jot about the shockingly low amount of self-respect you projected, how despite how clearly _contrived_ your entire persona was, there were still girls that wanted you because of it—and thanks to them, you thought you were some special brand of untouchable. You were fucking insufferable. I wanted to kill you.”

“I know.”

“No, _do_ you know? Do you remember fifth year when you harassed Sev so badly it turned into a rather four-way-hex situation between you and me and him and Black? And I tore you apart, I screamed at you something awful, and when I left you followed me into the loo and tried to apologize and I shoved you so hard you’d a mark on your neck the next day?”

His eyes alight. He nods in recognition.

I’m heaving with the effort of breath. “Well, you don’t know that after you left I locked myself in a toilet and cried, and not even for any of the obvious reasons—not for Sev, or the fight, or your conceited habit of inserting yourself where you weren’t needed, or even for myself, for losing my temper so badly— _no_ , I was crying because somewhere between you following me into the bathroom and watching your eyes as I hit you, I felt something soft and good and I felt it somewhere so bloody shameful that I wanted to actually kill you. I wanted to _kill_ you.”

The pleasure had pulsed in me briefly, almost negligible, an anomaly—but it pulsed, and I had sobbed for it, confused and furious. My ragged breathing, my flared cheeks, here, a product of the same feeling, returned, brighter and more painful than I remember. The shame might be gone—but the anger remains.

James looks a bit like he’s been set on fire. “Lily—”

“Don’t _Lily_ me,” I fume, aching for him, repulsed by my own longing, exhausted, exhausted. “Don’t you dare.”

His hand raises, tentatively, as if to reach, but the fingers fold in on themselves, as if a fist. “Is this real? Are you really upset?”

“I’m upset about how _calm_ you are, right now, sure!” I am dazzled by my own loss of control, here, and the shadow passing his face, maybe the memory of our old heat, the fury-based spark; it’s such a gross thrill, being shuttled backward in time, finding the ghosts of our former selves. “Won’t you fight me?” I ask, helplessly. “Won’t you scream at me?”

His head cuts to the side. “I’m not angry with you.”

“Please,” I plead, and my body is flushed, quickly, without permission, by the sound and the word. I go to him miserably, push against him until he’s pinned to an opposite wall, the poor light of ensconced flames quivering like dismal observers. I feel his lungs depress with air; a crinkle of quiet noise from his throat as my fingers traipse his hips, curl into claws. “Fight me. Be angry. Give it _back_.”

I am near tears not by any admission but by the rude and sublime feeling of his body and its resistance, unbending, taut. The excruciating refusal to participate in my chaos, handmade. My neck rolls on his shoulder, his breath like a trainsong in my ear, something calling me closer. He hasn’t touched me. I am furious.

“Lily,” he says, calmly, as if he isn’t asking to be murdered with every second he hasn’t pulled me closer, claimed me, kissed me. I inhale so sharply it sounds like a sob.

And then he does touch me, he grabs my shoulders and yanks me from his neck, and I look at him, desperately, finding a flicker of that same desperation broken over him, a rift down his perfect defiance.

This is where I leave him. I leave so quickly that there must be some wind alongside, my eyes blind to a corridor I’ve walked a hundred times before, cold stone floor just a path to someplace else, someplace empty of fear and desire and need so heady it drags through me like nails.

My last resort in this stupid game, it seems, is running.

Only my feet know where I’m going. I drag a shaking wrist over my mouth. _Banish all thoughts of his taste._ I am scared of myself, for a hard beat of a minute. The pounding of my heart so loud and angry. In my throat, stuck words. My hair is a screaming wave. I shove it from my face impatiently.

I don’t go to the library. I go to an Arithmancy classroom. The board I often use after hours for calculating the future stands blank at the front of the room. I chuck my bag down and seethe along myself. I kick the leg of a desk. Accomplish nothing but a hurt toe. My breath knots exasperatedly; I heave in droves. If my body is trying to have a panic attack, I swallow the instinct. These lungs _will_ do this work.

There is someone in the doorway.

I want to tell him to fuck off. “Fuck off.”

He shakes his head, _no_.

Whatever artifice created this scenario to begin with—my coy teasing about who could or couldn’t stand a full day sans shag, his biting right onto a competition, as is his nature—is a crumbling column of sand. I’m standing in the shoes of my former self, a girl so antagonized by his presence that even the smallest flicker of attraction at his expense sent her into a spiral of cold, bitter dread. 

“Fine. Fuck you, then.”

I mean it. I want it. I do not look at him.

“Will you look at me?”

I look at him.

“How long have you been wet?”

The question spools a thread of surprise through my stomach. I am breathy; laced in defeat. This body is heavy and needs to be held.

And, anyway, as if he doesn’t know. “Since breakfast.”

The collapse is simple, really: His tongue slips out over his lips. He just says, "Fuck."

“Come here.”

He comes to me and the first thing he does—unforgivable—is dip his fingers under my skirt and fill his palms with my thighs. The sound he makes, along my open mouth: Feral. I eat it with my tongue. My own sound, he swallows. The second unforgivable thing he does is hoist me into his arms, lurch us toward the front of the room, the professor’s desk, place me down clumsily—I push him from my mouth with a hand to the throat. “Give me your wand.”

He’s surprised, for an instant, then reaches into his pocket and gives me his wand. This I aim over his shoulder. “ _Colloportus obstina.”_ The sound of the door shutting, lock clicking firmly. “ _Fortis quiescis_.” An almost indecipherable noise, like the quick and sudden spill of water down a sink.

His wand clatters to the floor as I pull him back to me, kissing him with the same level of cataclysm that has plagued every minute of my day. “Not only can you wield my wand, no questions asked,” he manages somewhere between my tongue and fingers tugging up roughly through his hair, “but you fortify two charms in a row, like we haven’t just barely learned to modify incantations last _week_.”

I nip frantically along his neck, sucking so agitatedly in one spot that no doubt I’ll leave a mark. “I’m showing off,” I huff, and he laughs. “Good thing, too,” he’s breathless with this continuing effort to speak, fingers scraping up the undersides of my thighs till I’m pulled clear to the edge of the desk. “Was a bit on the fence about having you, here and now, after all—”

This will not stand. I bruise our mouths together and dig my fingernails into the skin of his back until he’s caught firmly between my legs and his egregious moan, long and hard and eddying, is all I need to know we both have lost.

***

_James_

To have Lily Evans panting on the edge of a professor’s desk after a long day of imagining her naked in every form of the fact I’d ever witness: Incomparable.

Well—comparable, perhaps, to the unfortunate manifestation of a match struck down the side of the box. There are, truly, only seconds between the motion of the striking, the igniting of the fire, the burning of the flame; the ruining of the short, wood, stick.

Somewhere in the metaphor I lose my head.

Somewhere in the losing of my head I drag my mouth along her neck, suck long at the point of her pulse, just to taste its furious clatter, take it with me as I kiss down throat and collarbones till I have the good sense to start in on shirt buttons, which really sets her off. “Taking your godforsaken _time_ , I need—” She shoves my hands off to do the work herself so I catch the skin as it comes, mouth impatient for breasts covered by little more than a scrap, no contest for my tongue, lips, and teeth, all groping for equal purchase; her whining, here, my prize.

“ _Potter_ ,” she moans, tearing my shirt up and out of my pants, shoving her hands beneath for skin. “Get out of my tits and pay attention to me this instant.”

I do no such thing. I thrust the flimsy bra down on both ends and tend coarsely to each nipple; her hips jut, and she squeals, astonished at my voracity, unbroken. Skilled though she is in retaliation: Hands scrambling for my shirt, picking off buttons in haste, my ear caught in the slope between lips as she exhales her frustration where I can hear it best. “I will proper kill you,” she says, in the same second pushing my arms and face from her chest, wrangling my shirt from my shoulders; and when it’s gone, and I lean in to return to her, she stops me, thighs trapping my hips, her fingers curling to fists on my stomach.

I am reeling. A short, thankless laugh. “What, we’re stopping?”

She inhales a long and unsteady breath. “What if we were?”

She is still fighting. She is always going to win. “I could finish just looking at you,” I confess, eyes roving her, starved: Red stained column of her throat, rosy breasts, hair a disorder so assaulting I want to yell—and her mouth, her precious mouth, parted through with panting, swollen with our efforts.

I reach for one of her fists, uncoil. Slip it to my aggravated bulge. She presses of her volition and my eyes fall shut. Now her lips steal mine, just slowly.

I give those lips my secret. “I touched myself three times today.”

Her fingers close down, fast, on the hardness. “Three?”

“Could’ve been more.” She tugs on my tongue, as if she’ll not be satisfied till it’s taken out, twinned with her own. “Only so many chances for a bloke to duck into the loo between N.E.W.T level— _ooh_ , courses.”

“Tell me what you thought about,” she demands, scrambling at my belt, zipper unzipped, hand slipping down. This moan—ungodly loud—I settle between her neck and shoulder. Fingers card through the torturing hair, palm at her neck, cheek, head. She repeats herself. “Tell me.”

I drag in painful breaths. I have no restraint left, no resolve. Life as I know is cut down to these measly square inches, her fingers tugging me. “I thought about fucking you.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere.” My tongue is back with hers, begging for forgiveness, but she doesn’t let me kiss her long. Green eyes like jewels, glinting in the shadowed room. “In the common room, in your bed, in the middle of Transfiguration— _fuck_ , Lils—”

Her hand is gone and she’s forcing my pants and underwear off my hips, down to my knees. She’s ripping my hands out of her hair and forcing them up her skirt, over her warm naked hips, curling them till I feel her arch in response. “Where else?”

“In the library,” I groan. “In the stacks.”

“You wanted me there, how I said?”

“Oh, gods, yes.” A hand slides inward—finds her unforgivably wet. Her face collapses, lips vying for mine, desperate: But I resist. Trace small circles with a finger. Find her wild eyes. Wide and trusting and rapturous. “Lily...”

My fingers still: Her mouth breaks into an _o_. Breathless, “Yes?”

“Can I be rough with you?”

“Yes,” she says immediately; a finger slips inside, and her gasp. “Yes, I want you to.”

“I won’t last long.”

“Potter,” she whines, grasping a hand along my neck.

Another finger; her _gasp_ here. “I’m going to lose it so quick.”

“Potter, I—” she takes my chin and my mouth and fills me through with yellow light. “I was such a shit student today. I only thought of you.”

“Tell me,” I murmur, hand slipping out from under, the pretty wet brought right between my teeth, lavished on my tongue.

Her face screws up in pain, or pleasure, or whichever lay unbearably between the two. Her skirt is staying on, apparently, because she’s frantically tucking the bottom edge up into the waist. “This,” she runs a thumb along my mouth, “I thought of here,” a finger down along exposed thatch of curls. “And this,” she blinks up through dark lashes, knuckles tracing indifferently down my overeager length. “I thought of here,” the fingers coming from between her legs and running along her mouth, brutal to the tensing muscles of my shoulders and my arms, desperate to be put to work; the sparkle of the game spiking, again, viciously. “And this.” All hands on deck, now, my face drawn insistently down to hers, “Here.”

The tragic and elemental truth of my body is it needs hers like another needs gravity. She pulls this truth out of me and exploits, and endures, and I’ve yet to capture anything close to the knowing she wants me back and wants me bad: Here, her breath becoming the fabric of my fragile hold to any world beyond. I push into her, blissfully.

In the second after, she smiles. She laughs.

I am all the way inside. “Something funny, Evans?” The backs of my hands on the tops of her thighs.

Her hands spread up my back, along my shoulders, down my arms and chest. “I’ll tell you later.” She swallows my response with her lips, swivels her hips, just so, and we’re sunk. “James, please, will you—”

I’m out and back in before she can finish, the thrust so coarse and sudden that her fingers dig into my arms, hard. She finds my eyes. Puts her mouth on mine and just breathes. In, and out. “Harder.”

***

_Lily_

The moment I give James permission to bear down on me in the quick and brutal way I know he wants to—have known he wanted to since the library, feeling the instinctive response of his hips culling to mine from behind, agonizing in the possibility—I watch light leave his eyes in favor of baser needs.

His immediate vigor pitches me backward onto the desk, hard and cold beneath, though I hardly notice, my basic senses obliterated in favor of my legs held up by firm fingers, fastened to the plush of my thighs, the sight of his face in quick flashes, my neck unable to stay up for long amidst the unspeakable delirium of the quick and the thrust; and even the sound of his glasses, chucked unthinkingly to the side, their defeated fall somehow unreasonably lewd, the reality and abandon of this act unconscionable in a _classroom_ , where I’ve sat to _learn_ ; and here I am, learning again, learning the tug of his teeth on his lips, the puckered brow, hair flopping deliriously, this continuous, gasping, burgeoned groan. With a thrill so carnal I’m almost appalled I lay back and listen to the sound of our sex, the slap and suction and slip, tugging at my nipples and bruising fingers between my legs because apparently he will not—and this is how I know he’s wanted to fuck me like this for a long time, long before today, long before the library: He is eyes-closed and cursing, undaunted by his own audacious strokes and their salacious effect on me, my fragility cast off in favor of this glorious, punished filling. His needs have commandeered any clear thought of my own.

Lucky for him _I like it_. I wind my fingers around his and tell him it feels good, so good, and he molds his mouth the inside of my leg, kissing, biting, groaning into my knee, opening his eyes to find me, useless, lying, and there’s some hopeless word formed by his mouth that never gets out when he sees my messy fingers, glued to the site of his abandon; I am breath-robbed and unbidden as he cries out, some semblance of a swear, or a prayer, or a plea, with a bright, burning, decisive inward plunge.

I pulse, unbelieving, an architecture extorted: He has used me to his ends, robbed me of higher pain. He comes hard and quick and pauses there, unmoving. “ _Potter_ ,” I growl, furious, clambering onto my elbows to find his sweaty-chested apology, eyes collapsing down my prone form. “You can’t—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he groans, bending over me to gather my back in his arms, pulling me upright, our buzzing bodies like exposed wires, sparking flares, “I told you I wasn’t going to—” I kiss him, angry, desperate, tug at his tongue with my grief, body stuttering on the edge of an end, excruciatingly near; the promise of pleasure pulses through me, taunting, as I writhe, trying to get him to move, to restart his brutal rhythm, but he just says, “Will you—turn—”

And then he’s out of me and commanding my hips to spin, body thrown unevenly along the edge of the desk, and he drags his fingers down every shaking, defenseless inch of me, sinking onto his knees so his mouth can press right to my cunt; I cry out immediately, the feeling too much, too much. I turn, desperate to see, scrambling to shove my skirt out of the way, but all I can accomplish is a view of his hair, desperately skewed, bobbing up and down and the _mouth_ : He is gone, here, too, tongue delving in and out of me with carnal ferocity, palms wrapping my thighs to keep me upright and still my violent tremble. He is eating me alive. Alive. In the end, I am glass, shattered uncleanly, thrown out of myself; a mess of unfathomable pieces. I am furious. I’ve been cut from my own center. I weep down into the desk. The wood bruises my throat.

He breathes into me for countless moments, tongue slowing but not relenting, hands sliding softly up my thighs, a soft, loving pressure along my arse. He kisses every inch. I feel him pause, swallowing, along my knee. Breathe in, out.

My head, usually so useful, is inadequate for words. I am only the lope of my heart. I touch the top of my cheek and find a tear.

James will be bashful, now; I know this before I see him. He stands and gathers me, pulling me up from my harsh landing, arms surrounding me so carefully I know he must think I am angry. I am just trying to breathe. I feel hollowed out and spun tight, throbbing. Fulfilled. If he took me now, again, I would die, somewhere in the middle. I would ask for it, given the chance. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers so wretchedly I crane my neck round for his face, find the needless pain.

“James,” I try to admonish, but he is genuinely sorry, and for what, I’ve no idea. I kiss him, but his heart isn’t it in and this is frustrating, given the start, the middle, and both of these ends. “James.” I say firmly, turning around fully, making him look at me. “What are you sorry for?” I pull his hands along my back, look at him carefully, “Did I not ask for that? I wanted that.” His anxiety falls into his breath. He is listening. His hands spread up my back as he swallows hard, exhales, looks at me with a vulnerability that both frightens and warms. I try kissing him, again, and this time he responds, gently. I say, “Ask me if I liked it.”

He closes his eyes against my cheek. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” I breathe, pressing my mouth to his jaw. “Didn’t you hear me? Didn’t you feel me?”

“I thought I was hurting you—and I—” he is agonized with the remembrance, falling forward into my shoulder. “I just keep going, I didn’t stop, that was so selfish.”

His empathy and adoration, normally beautiful things, are irritating beyond belief. “Look at me,” I say, sharply, and he emerges quickly from my shoulder.

I spread the disarray of sweaty locks off his forehead. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, you’re not selfish, and I am still, just now, feeling what you just made me feel.” My fingers span his jaw, keeping his eyes firmly in mine. “I know you like to be gentle with me, and I like that, too, but I _asked_ you to be rough, and it was so good,” I continue, voice low. “Watching you like that, completely unrestrained—it did it for me, too, okay?” I swallow. “We were both very pent up, that was bound to be messy.” He laughs, and I am filled with relief at the sound. I stroke my thumbs along his chin. “The only thing you should be apologizing for is how sore I’m going to be tomorrow.”

His slow smile is a good and familiar sight. “Okay.” He exhales, kisses me slow. Stares at me. His hair is catastrophically frazzled. “I liked it, too.”

“I _know_ ,” I laugh, reaching down to adjust my massively skewed skirt, feeling the messy evidence of him along my inner thighs. “Haven’t _ever_ heard sounds like that from you.”

“I...” he gazes at me differently, now, lighted eyes dimming. “I took out my frustration on you.”

“Frustration _with_ me.”

“Yes.” He has a lilt on his indented cheek. “The combustion...off the charts.” I laugh and kiss him—and he leans away to say, “I think that’s just always going to be a part of it, yeah? It’s intrinsic, almost, to you and me.”

I think of the fixation on combustion I had in the summer, my irritation behind a grocery in the middle of June: _Are we going to kill each other?_ “Yes, I think so, too,” I whisper right into this kiss, gentle and nostalgic. “Are you okay with that?”

Now he looks at me in the way I sometimes catch, the softness and openness nothing compared to the feeling, along my every inch, like I’ve been shot into a strange atmosphere, and lost, then found, instantly, by him and this look. “I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

“Good,” I exhale and laugh and he takes me up in his arms and I can hardly fathom the day, and how it hasn’t been years since the morning.

After a minute I leave him, to re-dress. My pragmatic nature has been forsaken for a long time, and I have to reclaim my own footing, if only in a small way. James watches as I readjust my bra, retrieve my shirt from its thrown place around the desk, put it back on. I find his wand on the floor. “For your, er, mess.”

“Mess,” he echoes, taking the wand as I lean back on the desk, smoothing my hands through hopelessly disordered hair. I watch him take care of said mess, quickly pull up his pants, refasten the zipper and belt. His shirt returns to him wordlessly; he is staring at my chewing smirk, watching him redress. I cross my hands over my chest. “I feel depraved,” he admits.

“You look it. You look insufferably fucked.”

He shakes his head at me as he redoes the loop of his tie. “Merlin’s sake, Lils.”

“Library. Potions.”

He smooths his hands down the front of his shirt. “You’re—kidding?”

“Not even a little.” I respond, grinning. I walk to retrieve my bag, chucked so violently down. That anger feels like an afterthought, now.

James follows my swift retreat after grabbing his own bag. I untangle my fortified locking charm, removing the silencing spell.

On the way to the library, I take his hand and say, “Can we save the argument of who won and who lost for later?”

He laughs suddenly, fully. “Blimey, the bet. How—its fully slipped my mind.”

“Good.” I pause for a kiss, singular—he tugs me in, hand-on-neck, for another, longer.

“Gods, you drive me crazy.” He whispers this solemnly, like it’s a matter of life and death, and I laugh into his mouth and smooth my hands down his collar, readjusting his tie.

“You know _you_ drive _me_ crazy, too, right?” I wonder, tugging him along again.

“I know I do when I’m post-practice, now, sure,” he needles, the triumph in his voice arguably well-earned.

“Oh, do _not_ bring that up, right now, when we’re about to be in the library, working on Potions, you prick.”

“It was actually my _prick_ you couldn’t take your eyes off of, if I recall correctly.”

I shove him for good measure, but my heart isn’t in it, my heart is beating like crazy, he’s destroying me in every way, in every facet, stupidly, ruthlessly. “Whatever. Wear that around me again and you’ll be sorry.”

“No, I will be _happy_.” We turn the corner into the library, drop our close huddle, but keep fingers clasped. “Hey,” he whispers. “Why did you laugh? You said you’d tell me later.”

I rub my lips together, remembering the moment, looking over at him. “You really want to know?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Okay.” We round the corner to the east end of the stacks, where a table or two of our friends are bound to be, still, even this late. “I just thought, in that very _satisfying_ moment, how grateful I was to your father for uprooting your family from London and moving in down the street.”

“Oh, for fuckssake,” James turns to me, brow knit through with his aggravated reaction.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to hear.”

“Fucks _sake_!”

“Believe me, it wasn’t a _choice_!” I return, quietly as I can given our setting. “The sentiment, however, was true. I am unreasonably fortunate.”

His eyes shut briefly. “I’m ignoring and forgetting forever that you thought of that in that moment. I am focusing, instead, on the rest.”

“Oh, you mean when you fucked me so hard you forgot I was there?”

“Evans, I already—”

“You should’ve _seen_ you, you looked absolutely feral—though I could barely keep my head up for more than a second, was getting pounded something _sublime_ —”

James grabs my arm and gives me a severe look. “If you don’t shut up we’re going to have to skive right off into these stacks we keep talking about—”

“— _no_ , actually, too late for that, love, your stupid mates have spotted us and are ogling.”

Indeed, a tablefull of Marauders have turned to look at us with odd eyes.

I lean into his ear. “It’s because you insufferably fucked.”

“I am already _so close_ to being hard again—”

“Boys! Lovely night, is it not?”

Sirius and Remus, at least, know instantly what James’ windblown expression and flushed cheeks clearly indicate. Peter, bless his heart, just says, “It would be more so if you’d help me wrangle another this foot out of this essay, Evans.”

“Sorry, Pete,” I say, kindly, dropping James’ hand. “I’m leaving immediately.”

As I leave in favor of a further table and Dorcas’ waving hand, I hear Sirius exclaim, harshly, “What _happened_ to you, Prongs? You realize it’s obvious, right? The sex you just had?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! I realize the only consistent thing about my updating is its inconsistency. This is to say I lack all the things a smarter writer would—primarily, the ability to plan ahead! Regardless: Thank you for patience, support, and reviews. Thank you, also, to the sweet readers who nominated me for Jily awards! What a shock and honor to be included. Thank you thank you!
> 
> Also: After some deliberation, I’ve created a secondary tumblr exclusively for updating/other related things, as I realize it’s confusing that my main blog is mostly just Renaissance paintings and Mitski songs (lol). My url is now the same as my username here, which I hope clears up any confusion: @efkgirldetective
> 
> Also also: If you have a tumblr and blog about fanfic/Jily/HP/etc, interact with me please!!! I need Jily writing & reading friends!!
> 
> OK I am done rambling—to the main event. I love these idiots with my whole heart.

* * *

12

I wanna burn down a house

I want you to kill my time

I want to meet you somewhere right now in the dandelions

—Matt Berninger, “Silver Springs”

* * *

_Lily_

James re-ties his tie three whole times before, apparently, the quality of the knot is to his liking.

“You know,” I say from the doorframe, where I’ve stood not five minutes watching the laborious process ensue. “There’s magic for special little tasks like that.”

“Some things are better with a physical touch, Evans,” he _tsks_ , shrugging on his sweater, then his robes, correcting a small out-of-place hair in the mirror above his armoire.

“Hmm.”

He grabs his bag and regards my stay near the door: Arms crossed, ponytailed, leaning. Perhaps he reads, here, my appreciation for his physical form, hidden may it be beneath several layers. 

“I’m not taking all of this off. I just put it on.”

“Yeah, and Merlin forbid I have to stand here and re-watch the tying process,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes and spinning around to take the stairs. “Imagine if you’d paid such close attention to your Care of Magical Creatures grade third year.”

“Not even going to ask about that mental recall,” James says as we exit the common room, step out through the portrait hole. “Instead, choosing to linger on you paying me any attention at all, bad scores aside.”

“If poor academic performance was a part of the scheme to get my attention, Potter, it _did_ work.”

“It was at least 75% of the game. Almost flunked Muggle Studies because of how often you talked. Arithmancy, too.” He considers, then adds, “Although, to be fair, magical maths are ludicrous and should be outlawed. So that poor performance wasn’t entirely on you.”

“ _None_ of the poor performance was on me, you prick,” I say, though I turn an affectionate smile on him. I can’t help it. “Listen.” I hold his eyes intensely. “Speaking of Arithmancy.”

This light in my eyes he reads like lightening. “Fucking hell, Evans,” he says, immediately taking hold of my arm, tone low and warning. “I urge you to take great care, here, in the _hallway_.”

I seize my arm from his grip. “Would you calm down? It’s just there’s an unfinished discussion, involved.”

His labored exhale is barely audible as a crew of Ravenclaws shoulders past us, loudly debating the idiocy of preliminary O.W.Ls, and then the idiocy of O.W.Ls, overall.

“Again. Evans.” He rubs a hand along his brow. “ _Hallway_.”

“It’s just that I’ve spoken to Mary,” I say, pursuing my course unperturbed. “And she and I both agree that I won the bet.”

James barks a severe laugh. “I’m sorry—you’re going to have to repeat that.”

“I’ve spoken,” I say, slowly, pleasantly. “To Mary. And she and I both agree that I,” I reach behind me, tighten my ponytail. “Won the bet.”

Fingers pinch at his nose. “I’m sorry, do forgive me. Where does Mary fit into this?”

I shrug. “Objective third party.”

“Objective—?” he laughs again, hands gesturing in front of his body in exasperation. “Right. And I’m Godric Gryffindor himself, right?”

I shoot him a mild look, but do not humor him with a response.

“And besides, I’m sorry, you’ve been off telling her about—about what _happened_?”

“Don’t be such a prude, Potter. I outlined in very vague terms. Besides, the only real important part is what happened after we left for the library.”

“And what,” he asks, eyes daggering in my periphery. “Do you think happened after we left for the library.”

“Well.” I clear my throat. Glance at him briefly, then re-center my gaze, straight ahead. “You tried to appeal to the past, and my subconscious body language, and then I, admittedly, went a bit mental, and dredged up a...memory I hadn’t thought of in a while, and it really got all my frustration and anger mixed up and—well, then I left, and, well, you followed.” I shrug. “Meaning I won.”

As we pass Hufflepuff tower, the corridor turns into a steady stream of yellow-and-black-tied students traveling in pairs, trios, clumps. We weave our way to the far right, where the hoard subsides. James leans into my side so our conversation isn’t shared now with the entirety of Hufflepuff house. “I don’t see in there, anywhere, where you _won_. You’ll have to be more specific.”

I look up at him. A small smile carves a lilt of my own. Can hardly help it. “You followed me. I told you to fuck off. You stayed. You came to me, you kissed me, you _initiated_ what happened next.”

His jaw twitches, clenched. “You’re conveniently leaving off the part where you said _come here_.”

Against my better judgment, I am back in the room, in the moment, seeing him striding toward me, starved. I run a hand along the back of my neck, as if that could negate the flood of heat. “You were already walking toward me.”

“You—” he drags an aggravated hand through his hair. “I disagree. I disagree _vehemently_!”

“Shall I consult Mary, again? Perhaps we can get a hold of a pensieve, and extract the memory from each of us, and go in and watch and, maybe, take some notes to compare—” 

What I am not expecting is him grabbing me by the arm, urging me along with him to an elbow in the corridor, shielded halfway from the morning commute. “You,” he says, pointing an accusing finger at me, “are so _dead set_ on getting—how did you refer to it?”

I rub my lips together. “Finger-fucked.”

“ _Finger-fucked,_ ” he seethes, accusatory fingers curling into a fist, “that you are ignoring all of the physical evidence to your own _personal_ benefit, which is neither very judicious nor righteous of you!”

“Oh, don’t go using words like _judicious_ and _righteous_ , right now, James. If you want me to kiss you all you have to do is ask.”

He stuffs his face into his hands and shakes his head back and forth. When he emerges, face wild with exasperation, the only word he can come up with, apparently, is, “ _Fuck_!”

“I'll admit,” I begin mildly, stepping closer to him. “That I _am_ quite keen on claiming my prize. Not just because I’m stubborn, or a sore loser—though, I am both.” His jaw twitches, meeting my eyes steadily. “But I have had a pretty moment or two to relive that final tension. I was _so near_ my own edge, all I needed was one single word from you—but I _watched_ you break, I practically _heard_ you break—and I know, too, and with hellish certainty, that if you hadn’t followed me into that classroom I could’ve survived the rest of the night just fine. But you _followed_ me. You _lost_.”

James’ chest heaves with manic irritation. “I can’t even begin to—” he stops, laughing sharply. “The only option is the pensieve, now. Hell, I’ll invite Sirius to come along and take a vote!” He steps closer to me, contrary to all his frustration—or, perhaps, because of it. “You can’t just—you can’t just say you _felt_ me _break_ before you, and so therefore, without a single doubt, _you won the bet_!”

“You’re just saying that because you’re _also_ stubborn, and _also_ are a sore loser, and you want _so badly_ for to be sucked off in the stacks!” I counter, breath right on his chin now, the physical annoyance manifesting all along his throat, which I can see at work, clenching.

“You—you—” His eyes blazing, our bodies no more than a breath apart, inevitable victims to indisputable tension; in fact, the exact kind that got us into this situation in the first place.

James, perhaps recognizing the danger, steps back immediately. Props his hands apathetically on his hips. Shakes his head. “You’re never going to relent, are you?

“You underestimate me,” I scold. “I’m _perfectly_ willing to relent.”

“And how the hell is that?”

I set my jaw in a hard line and cross my arms across my chest. “We call it a draw.”

“A draw?”

“Yeah. A compromise.”

I watch his face change as he considers the proposition. “What kind of compromise?”

“Well,” I say, demeanor loosening minutely. “I might be willing to overcome a certain...aversion to certain storage spaces in this castle meant, primarily, for those tricky sticks with the bristly ends.”

This gets his attention. His throat jerks. “Please don’t be joking.”

“I’m the furthest from.”

“Lily.”

“What?”

“I feel like you’re taking me for a walk.”

“Chrissakes,” I exhale irritably. “I am not. I _solemnly swear_ that I am not.”

This sets a sparkle at the edge of hazel eyes. “That’s a hefty swearing, there.”

“So you agree to these terms?”

His eyes rove my face. Finally, he rolls his shoulders back. “Yes.”

“Yes? Brilliant.” I reach out a hand. “Draw?”

“Draw.” He takes my hand gently. We stare. He adds, “Is this immature?”

I let out a laugh, long and relieved. “Oh, yes.” Then I add, “But I think it’s delirious fun.”

“Crikey, good, me too,” he says, and then he pulls me in by the hand for a kiss, and I exhale appreciatively along his lips. He smiles into the sound, my fingers finding his arms, and I wish with every ounce of my being that the day of responsibilities in front of us would dissolve into a fine dust, so that we could scurry off to the nearest broom closet; make good on our compromise.

***

_James_

Post-Wednesday-morning practice, the team is remarkably wrung-out, grumbly, irritated, and bone-tired thanks to a pre-dawn wake-up call caused by a very-much-not-in-my-control scheduling mix-up conveniently affecting every house captain _save_ Slytherin. And the morning, even as it comes to fruition, will just not relent, thin band of sunrise tampered by an oppressive grey expanse. The general mood is aggravation—treading a careful and bleary line toward anger—so I send my teammates off to their showers with what I hope is a half-convincing “really fine effort” wrap-up and the most encouraging smile I can muster.

Sirius, in rare form, sticks back to help tidy up equipment, muttering “ruddy morning,” as we quarrel with the wily bludgers, trying to make quick work of packing the balls—which he follows up inelegantly with a “fucking ruddy week, you ask me, anyway.”

Something in his tone that makes me look over. His hair, knotted along his cheeks, blusters in the cold morning wind. He wrestles a bludger down into its confines, jaw clenched in concentration as he battles the thing with the strap. When he finally succeeds, he sits back on his heels, heaves a breath, fingers tense on his thighs. He stares at the bludger, strapped in, still restless for freedom. A trapped thing. “I know you want to ask,” he says, looking up at me after a second.

“I don’t know—”

He snaps, “Hell, Potter, you’ve been wanting to ask me all week. I can’t take one more withering look.”

I huff an impatient breath as I spell the snitch closed and secure it in the trunk. He isn’t wrong. I caught half a conversation between him and Remus Sunday night, just before I joined them in the library, and he knows. I really hadn’t heard much at all, except Sirius saying he wasn’t "interested in some half-thing.”

“If you know I want to ask, why don’t you just answer?”

He exhales and pitches an arm to the opposite shoulder, balling a fraction of jersey in his fist. “I’ve got no good answer, that’s why, genius.”

I heave the top of the trunk up and over till it clicks, then pull the fastenings tight, slam down the two large, brass locks, cast an Anti-Tampering Charm. Sirius gets up from the ground. Rubs his hands over his face. Turns to the weak excuse for a sunrise.

“It’s no use trying to cut me out,” I say, gently as I can.

And that is what I feel: Cut out. Getting snippets here and there from Remus, cobbling together half-conversations and context clues, little glances or snide remarks shaded in differing levels of suggestion—it does me no good for continuity, for what Sirius is thinking and feeling. He’s withheld. And I don’t expect him to always tell me _everything_ —except for the small, aching part of me that says _but he always has._

“Not that you...owe me anything, any explanation, but—I dunno mate. I’m not just invested in you, here. I’m also invested in him.” I watch his throat bob with swift swallow. “I know you both. I _know_ you. You reach the edge of some massive thing, some _real_ thing, and you trip over the edge and once you’re at the bottom, you panic. And I don’t know, now, where you are in that realm. And I think it’s—really grating at me. I’m no use being useless.”

“It’s not—” he begins, sharply, then snaps his mouth shut, closes his eyes. “You’re not going to solve anything. You’re not—you’ve got to get that savior complex out of your head.”

“Savior complex?” I laugh, briefly, before I see his unmoving face, see that he’s completely expressionless. “Come _on_ , Sirius. It’s not nothing that the two of you are conducting some... _some_ thing that we all know about but it’s never addressed, and you fight and make up every other day, and it’s like there’s this half of everything that’s fake—it’s not that I want to swoop in and solve everything, I just want...” I shrug. “To listen. Hear it out.”

He stuffs his hands into the waist of his pants and scuffs a foot into the ground, but remains silent.

I swallow against the uncomfortable lump in my own throat. “I’m sorry. I’m making this me, and it’s not.” I admit, sighing. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I know that, but—It’s going to hurt no matter what.” His voice is sharp, now, eyes turned back toward the weak light of new day. “It already hurts.”

This depth, I know, untrackable. I can’t climb in next to them. It’s their bog. I _want_ to. I want to hold their hands and ask them to look into each other’s eyes and _feel_. Let that feeling lead. But that’s—that’s not my place to operate. It has to be self-surgery. 

I switch tactics. I ask, “Are you scared of what people would think?”

“Yes,” he says, immediately.

I resist the urge to refute the point. Instead I say, “It’s not as though there aren’t blokes dating blokes at school, Pads. If anyone’s a git about it, then, well, I’ve an in with the Headmaster. And Head Girl, for that matter.”

Sirius is shaking his head. He’s no laughs, which is how I can tell there’s something true buzzing around his edges. “Not for me, mate, c’mon. You’ve gotta know what shit he’s already up to his head in.” He props his hands on his hips. An unfathomable something pulsing behind grey eyes. “It’s on him, anyway, the secrecy. And that’s—we’ve fought on that, sure, but I have to be fine with that. I have to be, it’s not going to be some _easy_ thing. I don’t—it’s fine.”

He looks up at me. “Don’t _look_ at me like that. What am I supposed to do?” he demands, voice rising uncomfortably and breaking, right in the middle. He repeats, adamantly, “What am I supposed to do? I can’t change it. It’s—you can’t just walk into something blind and walk out seeing clear. You of all people so know that, yeah? And anyway, if it’s him you’re worried about, be my guest. But I—” he’s exhaling, long, full. “ _Deserve_ to be chewed out. I know. I haven’t dealt with it in any mature or reasonable way. But I'm—I’m not used to feeling like this. I can’t be expected to know, right away, how to do it exactly right, and—really, if it’s me in relation to him you’re worried about, I would tell you not to worry. Because I’ve got him, okay? I’m not—just going to go away. I’m not going to run away. It’s like—shouldn’t you know this, too, knowing him? He’s the rock. He’s so easy to hold onto.”

Black hair blown clear across his eyes, he might be some other boy, one I’ve never met. A face I’ve never seen. But then I blink, and it’s him again. After all, I do understand. If I was slipping into a wave, some angry water, it’s Remus I would reach for. Solid and rooted and true. He’s the rock.

“I know I don’t...deserve him,” Sirius says, this part quiet, just another tongue of wind. The crest of horizon is bloody, now, red and orange. It winks at me over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t pretend to.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe, again, to the ground. “I’m trying just to be whatever he needs. I’m learning.”

_I am still learning, and the learning is slow._

“Sirius,” I exhale, heavily. “You _do_ deserve him. You...deserve to be loved.” I fidget fingers down my chest guard, squint up at him through the harsh flash of sun. “Do you—?”

“Small steps, Potter. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I smile. Laugh a little. Nothing short of bizarre, seeing him sure of nothing but uncertainty. It’s a good change. Healthy. “It’s strange, hearing you talk like this. But I’m—” I shrug, tell him aloud. “It’s a good change.”

“I think so too, yeah?” He breathes in, in some relief, and pulls out his wand to levitate the equipment trunk as we step off the pitch. “You know all about changes in gravity, mate.” He laughs, a full and familiar sound that warms me through, despite the chilly January air. “Bout time I tried it, myself. Emotions. Being a bigger person. Getting into it, not through it.”

“Changes in gravity?”

The trunk is rid of in the Gryffindor shed on the outskirts of the pitch. Sirius falls in next to me, grins over. “Yeah. Center of gravity being, I dunno, the soul, whatever. Someone shifts it. Fucking boom. Change in gravity.” He creases his brows and his smile widens as I come to terms with this. “You invented that shit. Second I saw you this summer, post-Evans? _Bam_. Gravity change.” He punches me less-than-lightly in the arm. “Leaving off, course, the part where you didn’t tell me till she’d already sacked your sorry arse.”

We’re at the edge of the locker rooms. Sounds of our teammates showering, shouting, lockers slamming. “Your center of gravity feels different?” I ask, rubbing my arm. “Sure it’s not medical?”

Sirius shoves me again. “Merlin’s saggy balls, Potter, I’m being solemn for once in my miserable life.”

“Sorry, gods, I’m sorry, I am,” I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s poetic, honest. And true. You described it better than I could’ve.” _Gravity shift_. Like everything slants, subtly, toward her. “Also, I’m absolutely telling Moony you said that.”

“You’ll do no such sodding godamn—”

But I’m already gone, out of his reach, ducking into the locker rooms. Grateful, without humor, for his language.

***

_Lily_

I’m three-quarters through a Transfiguration essay when James returns from a mandatory “turn about the castle” with the Marauders, a Thursday-night tradition Sirius had pitched, developed, and instigated all within the first few weeks of second term. The night always works quite well in my own favor, given the quiet and concentration I can achieve without a companion—conversely, it always seems to leave James in a cheery mood, a good break from his own work, a stress-reliever, time spent with friends that he won’t have much longer to spend in this time and place. I sometimes dwell on the idea that I unfairly capitalize his time, and so, selfishly, the break also serves to sooth my own anxious proprietary.

Tonight is no different; he’s a wide smile and a relaxed demeanor as he rolls into the room, a subtle spring in his step thanks to a long string of quips and jabs and elbowed-ribs whilst recounting good pranks and potentially _performing_ more pranks, which I absolutely, in no way, ever want to hear about—and have frequently told him as such.

I know from the way he sits right down next to that his immediate inclination is to share his good mood, and to snog me, and then, perhaps, if he’s lucky—which he most often is—to shag me; but Transfiguration is quite on my mind, and I say, “Pleasant evening? I’m very tangled up in this.”

He kisses me only once, chastely, and says, “Alright.”

I look at him oddly now, expecting more of an explanation, or more of an effort; lack of either is bewildering. “What have you done?”

“Haven’t done anything. I’m glad to sit here, keep you company.”

I meet his mild, pleasant gaze with one of suspicion, then return my attention to the essay. I’m barely three sentences back in when he lays himself down, vertically, head coming down along my arm.

I blink down. “Can I help you?”

“Can I just lay here? I won’t be a bother.” It’s difficult to say no to him. I sigh, nod, lift my arm. He settles comfortably into my lap, smiling up. “I won’t talk, I promise.”

“You’re talking right now.”

He rubs his lips together and shakes his head.

The pressure of his head atop my thighs is familiar and pleasant. I start back in on the essay, balancing my reference text best I can between my elbow and the arm of the couch, ink pot hovering dutifully nearby. My free hand, almost unconsciously, lays down along his neck, a finger tracing the length of his shirt collar. His hand comes to my elbow to take a gentle hold.

“You’ll need to close your eyes,” I murmur. “I can feel them.”

He obeys. Eyes close. And though I want to, I do not bend forward; I do not take off his glasses; I do not kiss his eyelids.

The essay comes easily, then. The final quarter, in some ways, is always the easiest for me. Maybe it’s the fingers, climbing up into his hair, unable to rest, curling through. His breath softens, evens, elongates. He might be falling asleep.

I indulge myself a small smile when the work is done. Completing something well, thoroughly, and to plan always leaves such a feeling; contentment, a pleased, steady thrum, along my skull. The parchment, book, quill, and ink I levitate quietly to the ground.

Though my legs feel heavy with staying too long in one place, I do not move. I watch shadows of firelight throw themselves to their death on the carpet, the couch, the sleeping boy. I look at his face, find its youth; keep it for later. Both hands thread through his hair; I think this might be the first time all week I’ve sat and just breathed. Without agenda, without ends. Just breath.

I shift my legs, subtly, and am immediately disruptive. He is blinking, inhaling, turning toward me. “Did I—was I asleep?” He shifts upward on his elbows, rubbing fingers underneath his glasses over bleary eyes. “I only intended to stay a minute, really.”

“You seemed so peaceful, I didn’t want to move.” I take advantage of his stay off my lap to resituate myself around him, his body between my legs. He leans backward gently, head cushioned somewhere between my belly and chest. His arms slide over mine, draped to his chest. 

“Finish Transfig?”

“Yes.”

“Must be O-level with that tone.”

“I’ve no...tone,” though I definitely do, and I’m hiding my smile at the back of his head, flush in brown waves.

He kisses my wrist, right where the veins coalesce. Underneath, all my blood. His other fingers skitter at my knee, right where sock meets skin. “Will you tell me something about you that I don’t know?”

I think for a moment, self-examining, sifting through parts of myself that aren’t always near the surface. “I’ve been told I’ve a lovely singing voice,” is what I land on. “I had to sing solos for every Christmas night service growing up, it was miserable.”

“Alright, then, let’s hear it.”

“No, no, no,” I laugh, and my socked feet slide up and over his legs. “I’m unbearably self-conscious.”

“I can’t even see you! I’ll pretend I’m not here. Sing me some Muggle tune. What about something by that one band, the one with—The Bugs?”

“The _Beatles_ ,” I laugh again, and even with his hands sliding down my calves, applying such attractively firm pressure, I refuse, on principle, to do as he asks. “And the only way you’ll ever get me to sing is drunk, or in church. And I don’t suspect I’ll much be in church, with you or otherwise, so alcohol may be the ticket.”

“But—what if I’m ill, and my only hope of recovery is your song?”

His hair catches my laugh. His thumbs press to the back curve of each knee. “I’ll consider it.”

“Consider it?” The thumbs embark upward, catching the cinched edge of my socks, pushing under. “I’m lying on my death bed and you won’t _sing_ to me and save my life?”

“It’s just embarrassing,” I say, letting my head roll down against a shoulder, into his neck. “I’d have to be sure no one else was in the room.”

“Okay, Evans, noted, you’d rather me die than _you_ be embarrassed.”

I vibrate all along him, laughing, guiding his hands with my own underneath the sock, fingers along the sensitive sides of each thigh, where the knee bends. “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”

He exhales. “Well, I’ve a terrible singing voice.”

“That doesn’t count. I already knew that.”

“How?”

“C’mon. I’ve been subjected to your serenade on _numerous_ occasions.”

“Numerous—name _one_ time other than Quidditch that you’ve heard me sing—and even then, I wouldn’t called that singing, it’s really more of a chant-yell sort after wins.”

“Second year, Muggle Studies, you assumed I wanted to hear a boldly off-tune rendition of “You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me,” before, during, and after class.”

“That...okay,” he concedes. “I was on a bit of a Warbeck kick, yes, I remember. Remember the hex, as well.”

“And then, if that wasn’t enough, not the next week you’re following me from the common room all the way to breakfast belting “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love—” which earned you twice the hexes, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“I was _twelve_ , Lily, I thought every girl wanted to be sung to in public!”

“Don’t know where you got that idiotic idea, honest, were other people doing that? Or was it just your own special brand of logic you were working off of?”

“I hope you’re feeling good about yourself, love. I didn’t ask to re-live this humiliation.”

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry,” I push my feet down over his, put a soft kiss to his neck. “Tell me an actual something I don’t know.”

“Fine, fine.” He sighs. “I’m no good at singing, but I’m decent at piano.”

“No, _really_?”

“I will not stand for this tone of utter shock.”

“I’m not—I’m surprised, sure, but go on,” I offer another quiet kiss along the neck, in the dip of skin above his collar, as consolation. “I’m sorry, please tell me.”

His fingers have worked the socks back down over my knees and are making slow circles at the top of my calves. “Mum told it me it was either piano or violin, because she, and I quote, ‘wouldn’t allow a knut of Quidditch if I didn’t balance it with fine art.’ I didn’t want to do either—I obviously just wanted to fly—but I picked piano. And I didn’t love it as well as I should’ve, or work at it as hard as I should’ve, but it did help me learn how to concentrate, and a bit about the value of patience.” After a second, he adds, “Just a _bit_ , mind you. Got a long way to go.”

“Well, this is a phenomenal turn of events, I have to say.” I brush my hands back through his hair, watching as his eyes close in appreciation. “Seeing as I’ve always been particularly enchanted by piano. I’ll be needing to hear you play.”

His eyes snap open. “Mmm, not likely, Evans, give you won’t sing to me even in the hour of my death.”

“You’re being—it’s different, singing is vulnerable, and playing piano is—”

“What’s this sudden aversion to being vulnerable around me, huh? I don’t remember any such protest not days ago in an Arithmancy classroom.”

I am silent at that, given he’s not incorrect. “That’s...that’s different.”

“I wish I could see your face.”

“I’m hiding.” I am, face-down in shoulder. His fingers push my socks halfway down my calves.

“Maybe you’ll let me turn around.”

“I won’t,” I say, curling a hand along his jaw, feeling the subtle scrape of cheeks and chin not shaved for two days, maybe three. “Maybe you’ll grow a beard.”

“You’d like that?”

“I think so, yes.” Fingers edging jaw fall to the small slip of chest; slide under shirt buttons. “I like how hairy you are.”

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, fingers pressing down into my calves, gliding up, up, up, meeting the edge of my skirt. “Please let me turn around.”

“Only if you vow, here and now, to play for me next time we’re both in the vicinity of a piano.”

He scoffs, “oh _fine_ , very well,” and I grin and obediently retract my legs and he sits up and turns around and climbs down over me, careful, skipping my offered lips in full favor of my neck, which is at the same time very rude and very nice, and I’m thinking that he’s got his snog after all, and—with this mounting luck—will probably get his shag, as well.

***

I’m three stacks away in the Magical Artefacts section when I see her first time.

My intention: Returning to the library table I left not five minutes before to consult Remus on an upcoming Alchemy exam I keep forgetting to chat with him about.

My pause: Not three stacks away, between the Marauders at their table and me, approaching, is a head of long, swinging white-blonde hair, a pair of slender, sheer-tighted legs.

Kerstin Finn, Slytherin. Fifth-year girlfriend of one James Potter.

I stop where I am, step further behind the stack, and watch.

I’m too far to hear anything, but I see James looks up, surprise flashing over his face for just a moment before he replaces it with an amenable smile and says something. I watch her head tilt, long hair shifting pleasantly with the effort. She moves subtly to the side, hip almost resting against the table. Even from this angle, just a hint of her profile is enough reminder of her distinctive beauty: Thin nose and sharp cheekbones, effortless eyelashes and thin, curling mouth.

Sirius, next to James, watches the interaction with what I think is trepidation. He says something, and James looks over, nervously, laughs. Pulls a bit at his collar. Kerstin says something else to him and rests a hand, briefly, on his arm.

Something ugly raps at the back of my throat.

For a second—just a miniscule second—I am seized with the urge to leave my post, stride right up to the table and interrupt this little reunion, putting my own hand on James, maybe around his shoulder or through his hair, letting Little Miss Slytherin know _exactly_ who he’s currently entangled with.

But I do not move from my spot. I shove my eyes shut and turn away quickly, back pressed hard into the spines of books. The impulse frightens me, deeply. I am not a jealous type. I inhale slowly; force myself to recalibrate. It’s ridiculous for me to feel insecure to begin with—and especially when observing a moment I shouldn’t even be around to see.

I open my eyes, exhale all my held breath, and leave the library.

The second time I see her I’m in the loo round the dungeon staircase to the first floor.

I’m washing up thoroughly post-brewing, having finally finished an incredibly frustrating batch of Exstimulo Potion replenishments for Slughorn. The month-long process was not only finicky, detailed, and exhaustive, but was rather under-the-table to begin with given the spell-boosting effects and the Professor’s constant reassurance that the users of the potions would be both of-age and in dire need. I am relieved to finally be done with them—though the good feeling doesn’t last long.

The second I catch sight of the pale blonde head coming out of a stall in the back, I feel something lock up in the back of my throat. I’ve slather soap all the way up to my elbows and aim to rinse it off slowly and without fear.

Kerstin looks at me oddly to begin, then contorts her face into a polite smile. “Little far from home, Head Girl.”

I lean my forearms onto the sides of the sink to turn off the faucet. “And how’re you, Kerstin?” The tone—I realize after it’s out—is a bit cheeky.

She quirks an eyebrow at me, turning on a faucet and dispensing a dash of soap into her palms. “Well. You?”

“Really well.”

I take out my wand and cast a quick-dry charm, rolling down my sleeves hastily, eager to be rid of her spearing side-gaze. I’m retrieving my bag and robes from where I left them near the sink when Kerstin says, “You make a _really_ lovely couple.”

I turn and meet her eyes; find the compliment not entirely free of vitriol. Her mouth is tied up in a smirk that unravels a ribbon of anger down my spine.

“Very kind of you to say so,” I say mildly, wanting away from her as quickly as possible. “Have a wonderful evening.”

Perhaps a good use of my strange seething hike back to the Heads quarters would be contemplating where my irritation is coming from, and treating it at the source. Being thoughtful. Being reasonable. Being adult.

But the jealousy flares up from a part of me I can’t name or place. It pulses and slithers. It feeds itself into a notion of possession so strong and sudden that I’ve no choice but to feel it, hard and aching, borne down in the center of my chest.

By the time I’m banging through the portrait hole my head is empty of anything except the irrational impetus, encouraging me toward one thing and one thing only when I find an entirely unsuspecting James hard at work—and not even his look up, his smile, his “Hi, Lily,” can stop my strange approach, the quick seizing of his face in my hands: The burning, resolute kiss.

James startles initially but recalibrates, mouth sliding open, a groan of pleasant surprise slipping around my tongue. His chair scrapes the floor as it skids backward, my body eagerly rounding the edge of the table to slide onto his lap, into his frantically circling arms. I know I am coming on strong—but I don't care. I pin myself to him with tactless fervor, battle with his clever tongue. The image persists: A hand placed delicately on his arm. My breath whines with razored greed—he is mine, _he is mine._ I am shocked by myself. Hips canting barbarically, bruising his crotch, my hands scrubbing frantic through his hair; his hands pressing into my waist but not hotly enough, not chaotically enough. I slant myself ruthlessly, grinding, the groaning both his and mine; different frequencies, same song. I want to burn her hand out of my head. I want to set myself on fire. I clobber a hand to his jaw and bite his lips, lashing along his mouth with neither tact nor care for the whimper trembling through us both. I lick along his mouth; I buck forward on his lap; somewhere in between, his glasses knocked sideways on his nose—and this, strangely, is what makes me pull away, suck in a funneled breath.

I let my fingers go slack on his lips. He looks like he’s been taken up by a twister, blown away, miles from home. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, unable to look from his red-stained cheeks. 

“ _Sorry_ ,” he echoes, voice rough, pupils dilated beyond saving. Hands tighten minutely on my lower back.

“Do you—” I bite my bottom lip, feel his recent and brutal imprint. “Do you want to take a study break?”

“Oh, I’m giving up studying for the rest of my life.”

Then I’m pushed up and off of him and he’s leading me, hand first, up the stairs and into his room. He turns to me as I lean against the closed door and look into his face, watching as he scrambles to take his shirt off.

In that secret place, still, an undulating version of what brought me here in such fury. I exhale, slowly. Try to rid myself of contempt for a girl I barely know. Turn away, mentally, from the image.

“You okay?” James asks, fingers pausing on buttons.

I nod. “I want to watch.”

It’s a display I rarely see in full form, given my own participation or inevitable distraction. And now, with my heightened awareness of him, I want to see him, fully. I want to watch.

He ducks his own head, almost shyly. He must know that the modesty only serves to heighten my affection. I rub my lips together and tuck my arms behind my back. I urge, “Go on.”

He exhales; relents. I pin my eyes to the measured movements of his long and lovely fingers down the rest of his shirt, paying close attention to the act of its removal, the subtle rotation of shoulders as it falls away. His arms, lithesome and blue-veined, bend at the elbow, pause over his hips, sun-starved skin almost white in the ill-lit room. I trace my eyes along the tenuous muscles of his torso and stomach, unpretentious but unmistakable—as if formed through routine rather than intention—and patched intermittently in hair, a scintillating trail of which disappears into waistline.

When I look back up at his eyes, see his trepidation. I remind him assuringly, “I have seen you naked before.”

“I know,” he answers quietly, hands beginning to undo his pants, my eyes on the site of unbuckling, the deft unzipping, pants discarded in favor of strong legs, patterned in the same hair as above. He tucks his thumbs into the sides of blue briefs and those are rid of, too. I watch his cock fall out, heavy and pink and already half-eager, nestled in its own tussle of hair.

Here, I swallow. A shiver originates behind my knees and springs all the way to the back of my neck. Heat blooms over my chest and I rub a hand across my collarbones, feel myself flushing, pulling the collar apart.

I blink up into his eyes and approach, pressing light hands to his hip bones. Kiss his shoulder. “Have I ever told you?” I whisper into the shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”

A gentle hand on my neck, pressing my face up to his, lips parting underneath. I retreat, again, to stare. Maybe his cheeks, pink along the tops, have always been this pretty. Maybe I haven’t looked close enough. “I can’t explain it, but there’s something... intense in me, right now. I don’t know how else to get it out.”

He stares, trying to understand, and even if he doesn’t, he sees it, he sees my eyes. Kisses me softly. “Okay.”

“Will you lay down on the bed?” He lays down on the bed. Props up on his elbows to watch me.

Fifth year feels forever ago.

I kick of my shoes and unroll my socks. I undress slowly as much for his benefit as mine. The sensation of fabric sliding off is serving as a reminder that I am grounded, that whatever maniacal carbonation buzzes through each time I remember her hand on his arm, I am the one who is here, in this room, skirt falling around my feet, shirting fluttering off, underwear quick to follow.

I climb up onto the bed and James reaches for my lower back, trying to draw me over him. I quell the motion with a firm hand to his hip, kissing him, instead. “She wants to be in charge,” he murmurs.

“She does,” I break away. “Is that okay?”

He exhales and nods and runs his finger along my lower lip.

I lean back in for his mouth, slanting the kiss into something heavier, more serious, fingers crawling up to span his chest. I guide his hand to my breasts so he will pinch and knead nipples, so he will spread his rough fingers over each swell and make it sing. He plucks the groan from my mouth. My thick braid falls along my shoulder and along his neck and I watch his face change as he looks up at me. It’s a look that means looking. That means seeing. I don’t think the feeling—the carved-out fire, heated and adoring all at once—is something I’ll ever get used to. It burns me the same second it heals.

He once asked, _you know I would never hurt you, right?_ That is this look. That is this feeling.

I reach between his legs to take hold of him and his breath stutters. I watch the shadow of baser lust pass cleanly over his face; settle into its stay. He opens his eyes and I bring my free fingers to the crest between lips, push inside. He takes the fingers in gently, blinking up at me and turning them over with his tongue. Need glitters hard and quick, low in my abdomen. My lips part as his tongue runs up and down my fingers, wraps around. When I retreat, a thread of saliva falls onto his chin.

He watches, foggy-eyed, as I take those fingers right to my cunt and spread. I lean forward on my knees to catch the fallen spit and he urges me, moaning, into a kiss, tongue urgent, thorough. I feel him hardening in my hand, my fingers slow, barely moving. His wet work on my fingers is near unbearable between my own legs: I need more friction, and soon. I lean over him fully, breasts brushing his chest and with their weight, he groans my name.

I lean fully backward, up and away from him. He looks desperately put out by my absence, but I allow myself a full and heavy second of observation. His repose is astoundingly sensual: Mussed hair and tense forearms and lips swollen through with the work. “Holy hell, Potter,” I murmur admiringly. “You ever look in a mirror?”

“Sometimes,” he chokes out. Red cheeks and prick pulsing under my hand. I push my braid over my shoulder. He watches me closely.

I want him to come for me, because of me.

My own body I swing around his torso backward, one thigh along either side. James makes a sound of acute agony, hands immediately climbing the backs of my legs. I smile. A small pool of spit gathers on my tongue and I fold my body forward, let the wet fall down onto his length. “ _Shit_ ,” I hear him breathe, behind; feel his abdomen convulse under. I rub the spit over him slowly, then set myself upright and settle over him, rather than onto him. The slick hardness feels impossibly good on my sensitive folds; I feel my eyes close, hear my breathy “ _ooh_ ,” and begin, languidly, to move. James’ warm and plying hands roam my thighs, thumbs indenting the skin of my hips, fingers gripping the flush of my arse. He mutters “ _fuck me_ ,” and I lean one hand back onto his chest, ask, “Everything alright back there?”

“Gods—yes, lovely— _unh_ , yes lovely view.” His voice is underwater, lust-struck.

I laugh and pause over the broad tip and its burgeoning heat, the suspension something wicked to my biting, vibrant need. I spread a hand over his cock and encircle the underneath, oft-ignored, with gentle, tentative fingers. His throaty groan is encouragement enough, the gasped-out “Lily,” aside, my hips curled tightly in his hands. I resume my sliding, bearing down on him quicker, now, body leaned forward so the friction hits just the right place, my whimpers bent between his thighs, balls fondled swifter in my fingers. I am, perhaps, distracted by my own good sensations to remember what I am here for—it takes only one image to bring me back around.

Hand on arm—arm his, hand; not mine.

I slide off his cock completely, letting it spring free in favor of my hands, my hips shifting backward so I can bend over, wrap my lips to the veiny base, lick a slow, upward path. James curses, and I whine in shock when I feel fingers slide under my arse, along my pulsating need. I take him deep and desperate into my mouth, letting the fullness prod at my throat till I can’t stand it and release him in favor of a swift and urgent tugging, a two-hand job, a slippery, tit-jostling job—and for all my energy and work he is killing me slowly from behind, fingers pushing inside unexpectedly, my breath lodging fearfully in my lungs; I gasp, “ _Christ_ ,” and grind my hips down onto the sudden hold, his fingers crooking slightly, immediately and unpardonably hitting right at the crux. “Christ, James, I’m—” I tug his cock with determined vigor, bearing down again with my mouth, sucking along the base in a way I know will make him moan, twirling my tongue at the tip with insistent, sucking kisses, pleased when his hips shift under me impatiently, writhing.

But he works too fast. He knows me too well. I am twisting in his hands. I have to reach behind me and still his fingers with a hand to his wrist. “It’s—” but it feels good, painfully good, irrationally good. “I’m supposed to be—I want you to _come_ , James, fuck, not me, not yet—”

“ _Merlinsake,_ alright,” he pants, fingers leaving me. I return to my task with adamant lips and fingers working in messy tandem with every swoop of my throat and a special little palm maneuver on his balls that seems, in the end, to surprise him into finishing, a quick and shuddering end that I feel when his fingers dig into my thighs and he cries out, chest bucking under my weight. My lips leave his cock just in time to watch the frenzied coming, all along his stomach. I slow my fingers but do not remove them, bringing my tongue around the tip to lap, whining at the pressure of his fingers on my thighs. I kiss along his pelvis, the tops of his thighs, the salty wet along his belly.

“ _Blimey_ , love,” he says, my teeth soft at one hip. His hands spread up my lower back, lethargic and warm. “Will you—can you—” and if he wants my mouth on his he’s in luck, I need just the same; lifting one leg off so I can spin around, share my blushing grin, bend over him completely, breathe deeply into his mouth. “You gorgeous—” I tease along his tongue and my hips splay kindly, tortuously over his so recently loved cock, warm and slick; he groans, absurdly loud, arms coming up around my waist. “I liked that,” he says, as if I need it said, “I liked that quite a lot.” I laugh into his mouth and succumb, for a few moments, to the sweet slowness of his kiss, the safety of it, the all-encompassing warm of him.

But in the back of my head, still, like a spider crawling down my skull: What brought me here. It pushes on me, unsettling, and I feel, without freedom, a strange sort of dishonesty. I know myself, and I know I will not feel good until I share it with him. So I kiss him once, delicately, touching the heat of his neck, then lift myself off, stare down. “James?”

“Yes,” he says, hands floating gently up my back.

“Um,” I swallow, already uncomfortable. “I ran into someone, earlier.”

His face changes at my tone. “Who?”

“Kerstin.”

“That’s—” his eyebrows meeting in the middle. “Really? I—saw her today, too, actually—” I sit clear up and press my hands to his chest. He follows me up, arms around my back, appearing, now, concerned. “Did something happen? Are you upset?”

“No, um, not upset,” I say, feeling stupider and more ridiculous by the second. “I was just—she was a bit _snarky_ , I suppose, and it just made me—”

“Made you what?”

I am startled, momentarily, by his tone of expectation. It jumps at the side of his neck. I bite my lip and try to temper the stupidity of the confession by running my hands over the back of his neck. “Just a little bit...possessive.”

Rarely do I see his eyes light like this, all in an instant. “Just to, um, clarify,” he says, clearing his throat, hands sliding between my shoulder blades. “The person you were feeling possessive of, in this scenario, was....me?”

I eye him, carefully. “Yes.”

His inhale is deep and long.

“I know it’s juvenile, and unhealthy,” I say miserably. “And I really don’t mean to sound whiny, or jealous, it’s all very—much in the past. I just—it was just the idea, I guess, of someone else...with you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Lily,” he says, voice low and pressing.

“It—just really _burned_ me that she would ever have been—” I look away. “Where I am, now.”

“She wasn't— _fuck_ , she wasn't ever—” James tries, frustrated, to get something out. “We dated for like two months, tops, and she was just—it was mostly an exercise in getting over you, if anything, and you have to believe that no one—no one has _ever_ come close to you.” A soft hand on my cheek, turning my eyes back to his. “Is that—” he’s searching my face, trying to connect one dot to another. “Is that why you came in and kissed me like that?”

I can still feel the sticky memory of him on his stomach, at the place where our bodies meet; and between my own legs, still, an anxious buzz.

“Yes.”

“And so—that was all, er, in your head when you were telling me I was beautiful and then...everything?”

“Yes, gods,” I groan, impatient and embarrassed. “I _know_ it’s immature. It’s the very last thing I should be—”

“—but you don’t understand, Lils,” he says, eyes burning into mine, head shaking emphatically. “I really, really, _really_ like it.”

“Of course you like it,” I mutter, pushing him down onto the bed. “It’s irrational, and you’re the crown prince of irrational logic— _oof_ , James, what’re you—” he’s pulling frantically at the backs of my thighs, attempting to maneuver them closer to his face.

“Would you—get these—” he struggles through the words, as if short on breath, so lucky for him I get the general idea and can finish the job myself, scooting up till my knees are balanced on either side of his face. He looks up at me from this precarious new situation, grinning very stupidly. He places a lingering kiss on each thigh. “You heard one snide word from my ex and came _sprinting_ up here to get me off, just to prove that I was yours to get off.” Just the fact of his breath on me from this angle is dangerous. I shiver, thighs shaking under his fingers.

“I’m never going to forget that, Lily Evans.”

“I should never have fucking told you, it’s—” His tongue dashes briefly up. My eyes fall shut and I lean one arm forward, searching for a steady grip on the headboard. “It’s gone—” A kiss, now, right at the sensitive crux of me. My other hand swift through his head, clutching. I look down at him, find him vexingly mild behind glasses. “— _straight_ to your head.”

His mouth begins an infuriatingly slow cadence along my inner thigh; each kiss on one side carefully mirrored on the other. Soft hands sweep up and around my legs, stroke the curve of my ass. I spread my fingers clear through his hair and sweep it off his forehead. His head falls onto the pillow behind him; I watch him blink up. “You know,” he murmurs, a hand sliding covertly around the arc of one thigh, fingers too lethargic for so sensitive a place, “that I’m yours.”

His hand is too still; his mouth is too far. My whimper is preemptive. Trembling hips brought down, closer, hungry for contact. “If you’re mine, then why don’t you—” He does. He takes his lips to my cunt and constructs an immediate and blistering heat, one that washes up through limb and lungs and throat.

And then he’s gone, head fallen back on the pillow, brow crinkling. “I’m sorry, were you—was there something you wanted?” I stare down, feverish. If I were in any state to roll my eyes I would roll my eyes—but my grip in his hair is enough, here, to stroke a thumb along his forehead, and wonder at the extraordinary circumstance of having his lovely eyes dilated to black-gold, lips parted in a pleased half-smirk.

“I want you,” I begin, evenly as I can given his fingers roving a cruel path, front to back, “to make me come.” I swallow against the tension along my neck. I add, for the sake of courtesy, “Please.”

“Could hardly deny such a polite request.”

His tongue a wanting streak down the center; I inhale quickly through the resulting jolt— and this he is kind enough to follow with new and stunning speed, fingers intrepid and probing, _almost_ breaching just where I want them most, then retreating in salacious circles from the place most desperate for tension. James, unfortunately, knows how to work me up and around an orgasm, pulling tight all my strings just to retreat, lavishly, pull me back from the edge. I want him to speed up. I want him to take me there quickly. But every time his fingers stretch along my entrance and his tongue flicks painfully to the hottest point, he retreats, and I gasp, and I tug at his hair, and I demand, agitatedly, “ _Potter_.” His unoccupied hand meanders my thigh, and in any effort to boss him around—never mind I’m at the direct mercy of his mouth—I yank the hand up along my back, pinning it to the curve of my hip so I can lean forward, forehead hitting the headboard, my egregious whining intercepted by breath that feels harder and harder to breathe.

Maybe he wants me to beg for it. “Please, James, _please_ ,” I implore, hips rotating helplessly along the exasperating modes of friction, all too little, all leaving me open, exposed, a livewire. “I’m so— _oh_ , fuck, will you—I need—” The glittering is brutal, now, chaotic along my hips and furious at the sight of his lips—and still, even now, I can’t forget the smirk of the other girl—what did she think she had? What did she think she had?

The image of her touching his arm. _Absurd._

My mind, however, goes blank with it. My thighs squeeze and hips dart quicker, frenzied, bold with a new and unfortunate motivation. “ _Please_ , baby,” I gasp, headboard stuttering roughly on my cheek.

His throat convulses and I hear a barely audible response—what with his lips full of cunt—and am rewarded graciously with a quick switching of motions: His tongue, warm and wet and unruly, darts inside of me and his fingers, elastic, sticky, press down, finally, to the livewire peak. I buck into the new friction, fevered, whining a chorus of _yes yes yes_ and realizing, distantly, that the jumble of emotions and the intensity of his movements and the rocking of my hips may be thrusting me headlong into an unusual reaction, the kind achieved through this exact insistence and vigor, this exact bold tongue. I crumple forward, choked on my own cries, pleading breathlessly for release.

The wash comes unexpectedly.

His delight just a sideways groan, tongue spinning through it, fingers parting along the site. “Fuck, Lils—” I gulp in air as he spreads me open with fingers and licks at the flood, my hips trembling with the force of such a forceful end; I twist my head and press it achingly to cool wood, fingers in his hair like a necessary anchor for unsteady legs; his hand on my back the only thing keeping me upright. His chin rubs along me now and I lift my hips immediately, the firm, stubbled edge too much for still-sensitive heat. And him—as usual—with this stupid, smug grin. Knuckles brushing back through me and coming away wet with pleasure, the echo of his words pulsing up through me like waves, like pretty, desperate waves— _you know I’m yours._

“That’s—” I inhale, deeply, attempting any semblance of regular breath. My nipples are razor sharp. I am absurdly thankful, in this moment, for the sensible braid of my hair down my back. “You—”

He’s really back in there, ignoring me—licking me up. I try to move off of him, but his hands fly to my hips and keep me firmly in place. One handy sticky at the side. Rivulets of gratification pulse out from his fingers and tongue, like the sparking embers of a fire recently put out. I am hot to the touch. I ignite, latently, as he swallows. “James,” I murmur, begging, appealing, now, to his lazy, affectionate eyes as they look up at me. On his glasses, a spot of me.

I gulp. “James,” I repeat, helplessly.

Now his fingers loose and I roll down his body and am subsequently brought, softly, onto my back, his arms delicate and strong all at once, torso clipping the painful peaks of my unexamined breasts. I pull impatiently at his neck for his mouth and bask, unerringly, in the fact of him. In his hands, slight and brushing along my sides. I stroke my hands under his chin and kiss him till my breath needs me more.

I can’t ignore what I’ve done to his glasses.

“You came...so hard,” he murmurs, amazed. “You came all over my face.”

I groan in equal parts mortification and retroactive pleasure; he takes it from my mouth as I twine my legs around his hips, exhaling dramatically. “It’s—it’s you. Your magic tongue. I lost consciousness for half a second.”

“Oh, gods, Lily," he groans, kissing me deeply. “Will you do it again, right now?”

I laugh and my hands, unable to stay away, fall along his face. And though I’m abuzz in lethargy, I can’t ignore the feeling of his body on mine, or that I’ve another go in mind—and by the way his thighs tense, he likely does, too. I mutter _accio, wand_ , and then wordlessly clean his glasses.

He chews at smirk. “Cheers.” The next second the smirk falls away; my fingers are moving slowly on his throat. He looks at me with softer eyes. “What is it?”

In another world, this is where I say _I love you_. In this world I just say, “I’m so fond of you,” and he laughs now, too, brushing our lips together tenderly, spreading a hand over the slope of one hip. “I’m rather fond of you, too, Evans,” he whispers, dotting my jaw with his mouth.

“Could’ve guessed,” I murmur, pelvis bucking up just slightly, just enough to feel his half-hard cock slip along my abdomen. His resulting groan taken to my ear; punctuated by shifting thighs. “But I do so hate to keep you from your studies. You were deeply concentrated when I tore you away.”

“I’ve dedicated myself to a new study,” he admits, tongue dancing down my neck, throat, chin.

“Mmm? What’s that?”

His head lifts and the gaze, here, my favorite. Fingers down the flushed heat of my cheek. “The study of your beautiful eyes,” he answers, kissing me. “And your beautiful skin.” Hands spread out along my abdomen, move upward to fill with breasts. I sigh; hips curve at the touch. “And your beautiful incapacity for patience,” he chuckles when I pull him closer, take his lips again, feverish.

“I wonder,” I murmur, “if you could simply study this place _here_ ,” I bring his hand along between my legs, then take his cock in my other hand, bring it to the same place, “with this thing, here?”

He gazes down at me, glowing. “Thank Merlin you’re so much smarter than me.”

***

_James_

“Clear now?”

“Nope, just the same as not two bloody seconds ago when you asked me the same.”

“I thought maybe they’d—”

“It’s Hufflepuffs. They’re not likely to leave till they address a feeling, or solve a little riddle as a group over tea.”

“If you’re going to belittle a house, Pads, I’d prefer it be Slytherin. What has any single Hufflepuff ever done to you, personally?”

“You’re just saying that because Evans is here. You know as well as I do that one single Hufflepuff couldn’t—” Sirius cuts off, perhaps because of the look Lily gives him. “Fucking whatever.”

“Clear now?”

“No.”

“But now?”

“How about I just tell you when it’s clear, yeah?”

Sirius and Lily and I are on a seventh floor mission when we ought to be in study period, loitering around the corner from the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry, supposed location of the room that—supposedly—disappears and reappears depending on the need of the summoner. Our only obstacle, it seems, is waiting for a clump of giggling Hufflepuffs to go on about their day so Lily can show us this enchanted room. “Why’re you so hopped up?” she wonders, now, hand on my arm.

“I’m not hopped up,” I answer, though I’m straining over Sirius’ shoulder to check the map, myself.

“You’ve got a peculiar look in your eyes. Also, your leg is shaking.”

I look down, clamp a hand around my shaking leg. Look back at her. “Just excited, is all.”

She looks skeptical, but doesn’t pursue the issue. “Also, how come the levelheaded group members are missing?”

“Lupin’s pre-resting,” I muse, straining to see if the Hufflepuff mass has left the corridor yet. Sirius bats at my shoulder to get me away from him. “And Pete’s a sympathetic napper.”

Lily is quiet. I turn toward her this time, see her complicated expression. “Full moon already?”

“Yeah. Happens every month.”

She gives me a look. The shadow of the corridor paints her hair dark burgundy. She folds her arms. “Why are you acting weird?” she demands.

“I am _not_ acting weird.”

Sirius mutters, “Definitely jumpy.”

I look past Lily, down the empty corridor. I am definitely jumpy. It might be the unsettling Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson earlier in the day, discussing the repercussions of badly cursed injuries, or maybe the poor score I got on a simple Astronomy writeup, or maybe it’s just remembering the reason we’re figuring out where to go for a meeting that may or may not be a total fake out, or a total trap, or could—if it turns out to be real—lead us into an insurgency that could potentially change the course of our entire lives. Could be, too, remembering that the last time that Lily went into this room was with Owen, and Merlin only knows what they got up to.

It’s any combination of weird anxieties, knitted tight along the skin of my skull. Regardless, I’ve no energy to explain, and my leg is back to its shaking. I say, “I’m fine.”

Lily knows better, again, but, again, doesn’t press further. And Sirius is saying excitedly, “Fucking finally! Evans, you’re on.”

Lily slides past Sirius and I around the corner into the now-empty end of hall. She looks briefly at the tapestry, depicting the strangest sight; the troll teaching ballet. Too delicate a thing for so large a creature. She spares us a smile, then close her eyes and paces, three times in total, in front of the empty wall.

Sirius and I look at each other, perhaps both waiting for her to turn and say, _really had you going, didn’t I?_ But she doesn’t. And when we look back, turns out she’s told the truth. A door has appeared where it wasn’t before, opposite the tapestry. Understated, smooth oak with a brass knob.

Lily turns to us, motions to the door. “Gentlemen. After you.”

“Merlin fuck,” Sirius says.

I second the motion.

He leads. I spare a nervous glance to our surroundings, making sure no one else is around to witness—then look to Lily, who has a poorly-suppressed look of excitement, then follow Sirius through the door.

On the other side of the door is a room walled in bookshelves and abutted in a large window with a plushy-cushioned seat. Outside the window, a lovely summer scene, someplace I recognize: Lily’s backyard. Her mother’s garden, the leafy willow. A green armchair across the window seat, a steaming cup of tea set atop a pile of books.

“Your house?” I ask.

She nods. “Dad’s favorite room.”

Sirius approaches the window and looks out into the garden, drenched in sun. Lily joins him, sits down at the window. He says something to her in a low voice. She laughs. I wander to a bookshelf, touch the spines of different books. _The Stranger. Moby Dick. Wuthering Heights._

If the Marauders had known about this room, we would have abused its powers endlessly. No question in my mind. Lily, on the other hand, knows how to take good things in measured doses. She owns patience like none of us have. It perplexes me—and is truly one of the things I admire most about her. Perhaps it has to do with her coming _into_ magic as a child, rather than growing up around it. She knows the value of a gift. She knows how to make the most of it, treat it well. Not take it for granted.

I only hope I can do the same for her, forever.

I join them at the window and peek out into the garden. I feel her hand at the back of my knee, and it takes away a cut of the weird pain I feel thinking of the last time we were both there; sunny day, grass underfoot. She is looking up at me. I say, “I _was_ jumpy.”

“I know.”

“I feel better now that you were right about this place.”

“Did you think I was lying?”

“Not lying, exactly,” I admit. “I did think half a jot you might’ve been having us on long-term, which would’ve been justified, given all the trouble we’ve put you through.”

“I’ve never once put her through any sort of trouble,” Sirius protests, flopping backward onto the cushion seat and drawing his legs into his chest.

“Right,” she looks at him, brows raised sardonically. “Because it was Remus who masterminded the majority of said trouble.”

Sirius crooks an eyebrow of his own. “If you think he was an innocent party to any of that trouble, then you’re gravely mistaken, Evans.”

I laugh a little—I can’t help it. “Most things we got away with were thanks to him, anyway.”

“If you’re admitting that the two of you lack the common sense needed _not_ to get caught, then I couldn’t agree more.” 

“Hey, I never once _claimed_ to have common sense,” Sirius admits, opening his palms in innocence, or peace, or some misguided interpretation of both. “So, who feels stupid, now?”

Lily grins, despite how dumb he is. I relate to that feeling on a cosmic level. “You’re lucky, I think, that despite all—” she waves her hand around him, as if to indicate his being in its entirety. “ _This_ , you’re still liked. That _I_ still like you.”

“Bloody hell, Head Girl, he’s standing right there!”

This laugh is shared by all three. I touch three fingers down the back of her upper arm. She looks up at me, mid-laugh, eyes alighting— _I miss you, too_.

***

_Lily_

“How’re you feeling?” I ask Remus as he sits down next to me in Alchemy. He’s a bit pale, but nothing else seems out of the ordinary physically. Yesterday was the final day of the full moon, and I’ve heard enough from James about how Remus usually operates post-last day to know he’s fighting mad exhaustion to be here, now, in class.

Contrary to this assumption, he smiles at me energetically. “Lily,” he begins in earnest. “Your potion—it helped _immensely_.”

My heart lifts. “Really?”

“Yes, it was truly—it made recovery _half_ as painful, I don’t—I don’t know how to even begin to thank you.”

“Oh, Remus, I’m—” Dorcas slides into the desk on the other side of me, so I lower my voice just a bit. Squeeze his forearm. “I’m so glad. No need to thank me. It’s truly the least I could do.”

Dorcas is poking me in the side now, saying, “Oi, Evans, I need to just, perchance, _borrow_ the last two lines of your work, just there, can you turn the parchment—”

After class—a long and numbing lecture on the positive and negative effects of unintentional faux-gold consumption, numerous of which involve the very dangerous concept of partial-immortality—the three of us return to Gryffindor tower to make quick work of post-lecture reflections and follow up essays in which we’re to take a definitive stance on the subject, pro or anti.

Much to the endless chagrin of Dorcas.

“I can’t be bloody expected to shelve my opinion _entirely_ on either side! Where’s the breathing room for nuance, here, in anti-versus-pro-land?”

“Clearly, you’ll just have to write the essay solely on that, Dor.”

She spreads a hand all along her parchment, considering. “I might.”

“You will.” 

“Meadowes? Hello? Meadowes?” It’s Marlene, flying in with her curls and startlingly pink lipstick. She flops her arms around Dorcas’ shoulders and leans in to whisper, salaciously, “ _Someone_ waiting for you outside the portrait hole.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s—” Dorcas huffs. “Tell him I’m in the middle of godamn Alchemy assignment that really can’t wait.”

“Actually, you’ll have to tell him that yourself, sweet girl,” Marlene says, smacking a pink lipsticked-kiss right onto Dorcas’ cheek. “I’m off to an empty dorm and a needy girlfriend. Lils, Lupin, always pleasure.”

“Bye, Marlene,” I roll my eyes. Dorcas is rubbing aggravatedly at the stain on her cheek, so I reach out and lend a helping thumb.

“Thanks,” she grumbles. She sighs, adding, “Guess I have to go get rid of a Doyle,” as she begins to gather her belongings.

“Get rid of?" I ask, keeping my eyes on my essay. "Or neck for approximately three hours?"

“Shove off, Evans, you’re really one to talk.”

Remus smiles down into his own work.

On her way from the table, Dorcas points an accusing finger at the two of us. “Hey, neither of you better go for my nuance angle, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say just as Remus says, “Would never think of it.”

With Dorcas safely gone from the table I turn to Remus and ask, “So, really, you’re alright? Feeling okay? Not injured?”

“Yes, Lily, I’m fine,” he smiles reassuringly. “I’ve been doing this for an awful long time. It’s not something you get used to, necessarily, but it becomes a routine.”

“Okay. Good—I mean, not _good_ but, well—you know.” I rub my lips together. “I’m sorry. To be overbearing. It’s just—I’m playing empathy catch-up, here.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Your concern is a welcome relief, actually, to the blithering idiots that react apocalyptically to any small scrape day-of.”

I look over at him, and feel, suddenly, the magnitude that he brushes off. He doesn’t wear any outward badge of anger or the grief—he chooses, among any handful of rightful reactions, _optimism_. The cavern of kept-in things, inside of him—it must be immense. Catastrophic. I vow, silently, to always be a patient witness to that, to dip into it if I have to, if he needs someone to help. He can only carry so much on his own.

He catches my pondering look. “What?”

“It’s just—you’ve been through so much. You carry it like it’s nothing.”

He exhales, smiles ruefully. “I haven’t been alone, Lily. And now look at you—you’re here, too. It’s not so bad. There’s worse things.”

“Like Alchemy essays?”

“Like Alchemy essays,” he laughs, a full and burgeoning sound, one that warms along the edges of my deepest worries for him—for all of us.

We’re silent for a moment, ruminating, perhaps, on the strange balance between schoolwork and other more menacing truths. The common room is fairly empty given it being the middle of the day, most Gryffindors sill in class or taking study periods in the library or great hall. There’s a group of three younger boys in a distant window seat, ones I recognize by face but not year. They huddle over a textbook, chatting in low tones. My heart, against its better interests, hurts at the sight.

“You know, Remus, you can—you can talk to me about...other things, too, if you ever need to. I mean—I’m here if you need to just talk about...you know, whatever.” I shrug. “Anything, really.”

A corner of his mouth ticks up. He stares at me. Something flutters in his brow. “Anyone ever told you you’re too observant for your own good?”

“Oh, I’ve been told that consistently my whole life.”

He brushes a hand through the neat wave of his hair. Taps his quill mindlessly against the table. He looks at me placidly for a second, then sighs. “Can I show you something?”

We take the stairs to the dorm the Marauders-minus-James share. Remus kneels next to his bed and pulls a small crate out from underneath. From the crate he hands me a stack of letters, bound together in twine. I peer at the letter on the top, its first line reading _Dear Remus_.

“Every letter he’s sent me,” he says, then hands me another stack. This one is even thicker, somehow, the twine tying it together frayed and molted, barely holding on. “Every letter I almost sent him.”

I look up at him, confused.

“Telling him how I felt,” he clarifies.

This I feel somewhere strange: The flats of my feet. They tingle. I stare.

“I know,” he says, sitting down on the bed.

“How long?”

“It’s hard to say in exact terms, but...sometime third year.”

I sit down on the bed next to him. “And he didn’t know until...?”

“This summer.”

“And Peter and James didn’t suspect?” I find this ridiculously hard to believe given how obvious Remus’ affection has been to me the majority of the year—and, on top of that, given the intimacy of their foursome. “At all?”

Remus laughs. “I taught myself to hide it, around them. And in general, I suppose. It couldn’t—I didn’t want it to muff up the group dynamic, or my friendship with any of them. And Peter—well, you’ve met Pete. And James means so well, and is really attentive in certain ways, but—I think he developed, especially last year, a sort of selective blindness to this particular...situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Sirius was dating Helen, and it seemed at first just like one of his flings, but the longer it went on,” he shrugs, laughing. “It wasn’t as easy for me to deal with as I’d originally thought. I was going a bit mental not having any way to deal with my feelings, which James _did_ notice, to his credit, but he completely missed the mark on _why_ I was so irritable. He blamed it on how irregular my transformations became in the winter months—which, I later decided, had much to do with my, er, inner turmoil, regardless. It was a weird year.”

“On top of N.E.W.Ts?”

“Yeah. Jesus.”

I stare down at his knee, shaking a little. I try to imagine what it was like watching someone he’d fancied for so long date someone else, and not be able to talk about it with close friends. “I’m sorry, that must have been rotten. For them all to be so oblivious, and no help. In addition to—well, Sirius and Helen.”

“It—I mean it was hard, yes, but I’d expected that from fancying anyone really, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy with...everything. I was setting myself up for failure, really. It seemed like the safest thing was to hole it up.” His hand comes down on his own leg, tempering the shake. “Anyway. It all seems a bit melodramatic now. Things are different, and school is almost over, and—” he looks over at me. “Everything else, after, is one massive lack of clarity.”

I almost laugh, here, because it’s almost painful, the lack of clarity—but I don’t.

"Did he tell you?" Remus asks, suddenly. "I mean—did James tell you?"

I shake my head and smile ruefully. "I just...saw."

Remus rubs his lips together and nods, absently. Then he clears his throat and collects the packets of letters, returns the crate under his bed.

“Do you ever think of giving those to him, now?”

He stands up, sighs. Stuffs his hands in his pockets. “All the time.”

“Do you—” I stop, because don’t know if this is a question I am allowed to ask Remus. I have always considered him a friend, and even more so, now—but still, this question is something I’m not sure I deserve to ask. 

This I hope he sees somewhere behind my eyes. His chin dips downward, head swaying. His chuckle is humorless, long-suffering. “I wish I didn’t, sometimes.”

“Remus,” I whisper, and then, also, because I can’t help myself: “Don’t say that.”

“It sounds horrible, I know. But—it feels, sometimes, like a losing battle, even when it feels good.”

I exhale audibly because I understand the sentiment—I feel it for an entire summer, trying to get a grasp on what my feelings were. Maybe I’m more like Sirius than I realize.

In the pause, Remus scuffs a shoe to the ground. He says, “He’s like—did you ever have trick candles? Growing up?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling weirdly. “The kind that act normal and then go out, and then come back on?”

“Yes,” he affirms, laughing. “God, I hated them. I just wanted them to be what they were supposed to be—but that on-and-off, the tricky part, that feels like Sirius. Glowing for intermittent moments—and you never know when, but he’ll go out, just like that.” He sighs. “His lows, his insecurities, they’re sudden, and alarming. A light out in a real, true dark. It’s thanks, in part, or in full, really, to his family. He had to cope, somehow. Compartmentalize.”

“I can’t even imagine what he had to deal with,” I murmur. The familial punishment for a pureblood child rejecting the tradition and trajectory of their pre-sanctioned lifestyle—in ways, I’m sure the feelings of ostracization are similar to my own, just in reverse.

“You understand being made to feel other. How it hurts everyone differently.” Remus says gently.

“Yes, of course,” I agree, nodding, though I add, “But pureblood rage...it’s unlike any anger I’ve ever encountered.”

He shudders, slightly, in the shoulders. “It’s rage without empathy. It’s disgusting.”

My smile is sympathetic. “At least—not all of them are like that.”

“Thank god,” he laughs in relief, his breath rushing out.

There's a sudden sound of footsteps and excited voices outside the dorm, and a joyful holler and banging open of the door precedes Peter and Sirius as they tumble into the dorm, eyes alighting on the two of us. Sirius strides directly to Remus and clutches his arms with such a force that I almost feel it myself, just from proximity. “You won’t _fucking_ believe it, Moony.”

“He passed the bloody exam!” Peter clutches at a windblown chest, cheeks red in exertion, pride cracking at the sides of his words.

“No,” Remus’ eyes blazing, now, as he stares at Sirius, mouth unable to resists an openly shocked grin. “Really? _That_ exam?”

“That _fucking exam_!”

“You—” and then with a callous, bright laugh, Remus hugs him, hard, tight, their hold on one another so desperate and immediately personal that I walk right past them to join Peter.

“What exam, now?” I ask, quietly, hands twined behind my back.

“Divination,” he beams, shaking his head. “He was teetering on failure seeing as he’s never once tried in that class and it’s shown, but—but he bloody aced this one, dunno how he did it. Although I in fact _do_ know, before you ask, Evans, that he _didn’t_ cheat. It’s a mid-winter miracle. And—oh, crikey, okay, they’re full-on snogging, yeah, typical.”

I turn in to find that Sirius and Remus are, indeed, full-on snogging, a sort of vehement, jaw-clasping kiss that I am instantly sure isn’t meant to be witnessed or ogled, especially in a room to which I have no sort of claim to live. “Yeah, erm,” I turn to Peter. “That’s my cue.”

“Evans—fuck, that’s _my_ cue,” Peter scuttles after me as I flee the dorm, and I say, “How often does that happen?” and he just shakes his head, rolling his shoulders back, saying, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I laugh and gather my notes and books from the study table Remus and I abandoned. “Heading to lunch?” I ask.

“Yeah, you?”

We walk down to the great hall together and Peter launches into a description of the soon-infamous Divination period in which, somehow, half the class failed a major exam and the other half passed, the latter, of course, involving Sirius Black and his miraculously salvaged overall score.

I make a mental note to carve out times like this, to seek Peter out. Perhaps I’ve been unfairly biased toward the other three, and their domineering personalities. Peter has been, thus far, the Marauder with whom I’ve spent the least time. But being around him feels good; it calms me. His demeanor is jovial and goofy and easy to read on the surface, and though his head is often high up in the clouds, most of his observations and commentary are keen when he’s not in the limelight, under close scrutiny. It’s hard to feel uncomfortable around him. His affable disposition has always felt like a true buffer between the implications laid between me and the others—tension with James, aggravation with Sirius, philosophizing with Remus. With Peter, it’s just Peter. He’s a blank slate. He’s easy to talk to about anything—he’s a good listener, smiles are dimpled and plentiful, insight thoughtful and guileless. He seems to unburden others, just by being there. James once said he’s like the glue that melds them all together. I feel the effect of the joining ability even with him alone, the quiet assurance with which I feel him as a friend, as a listener, as a support.

In the hall we find Mary and James already seated, and the way Mary’s hands are gesturing, her eyes afire, I really can’t tell if they’re arguing or getting excited. I ask them just this as I sit down. “We’re planning your birthday party, and we’re not telling you a single detail,” Mary responds, setting in on a coffee that looks to me to be 99% foam. A bit sticks to her upper lip.

“Is that so?” I turn to James, who is wearing a smile that means he’ll be sticking to Mary’s vow, for fear of death-by- Mary—which I can’t blame him for. “Not even a hint?”

“It involves unthinkable amounts of Quidditch. It’s Quidditch-themed.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I most certainly would.”

“I’m averting my eyes, this time, because I see it coming,” Peter is muttering to Mary, who might look confused—but I’m not looking at her, because the next second James and I are kissing, though not _quite_ as demonstratively as the display I’d witnessed not ten minutes earlier.

“What’s he talking about?” James whispers when I pull back, reach for a plate and a sandwich.

I don’t answer him, but I do say, “I had a really lovely chat with Remus, just now.”

“About what? Me?”

He receives a playful elbow to the ribs, here. “No, you self-centered dolt, not everything is about you.”

“Fine, then, if it wasn’t anything interesting, allegedly, what’d you chat about?”

I make him wait until I’m three bites into the sandwich, which is divine, and far and beyond my own exploration of paprika as a sandwich-spice. “You know—Pureblood rage, trick candles. It’s so nice to talk to someone that understands Muggle culture halfway.”

“Alright, nice try, Evans, you’re not just smoothing over _Pureblood rage_ , snuck in there.”

“I certainly am,” I say, glancing at him. He’s fork-deep in Shepard’s pie. I knick a bite for myself, then say, “We were mostly talking about the torrid affair.”

“Torrid affair?” James bats my fork away when I come back for another bite of pie. “Is that what we’re calling it, now?”

“You’ve a better term?”

“I would call it just a big bloody mess, but I suppose that’s inelegant.”

“They full-on necked in front of Pete and me.”

“ _What?_ ” The force of this reaction sends the plate of pie clear off the edge of the table, but luckily, I’m quick enough with a freezing charm before it tumbles to a short death. “What?” James hisses, again, apparently unconcerned with the mid-air pie and plate. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I am _not_ ,” I shake my head, laughing, righting his lunch in front of him.

“Everything okay, Potter, you absolute maniac?” Mary inquires from across the table.

“He’s being dramatic.”

“Yeah, yeah—anyway, Pettigrew, what’s this about sexy hippogriffs?”

James is still staring at me in clear disbelief. “Why are you losing your marbles about this?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Because I’ve—I’ve bloody well only seen them _look_ at one another in a—you know, loving sort of way, and you just waltz in and see them kiss? Yeah, I’m put out by that. I think I’ve a right to be!” His cheeks are pinkening with the effort of just how _put out_ he is about the turn of events. “They’re _my_ mates!”

“Good Lord, love, take a deep breath or you’ll burst a bloody vein.”

He takes a deep breath. Rubs his palms at his eyes. Shakes his hair out. I watch the whole display, amused. He closes his eyes, then opens them. Turns to me again, calmer. “So? What was it like?”

“It was—” I stop a moment, thinking. “Do you remember how I kissed you after you’d all sat me down and told me you-know-what?”

His eyes soften with the memory, voice soft alongside. “Yes.”

“Bit like that.”

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs. “I’m going to demand they do that in front of me.”

“Since when are you so perverted, anyway?”

“It’s not _perversion_ , Lily, it’s justice! I’ve barely heard a godamn mutual word about this thing from the two of them in a group setting, I think I deserve physical evidence!”

“James, honestly,” I implore. My sandwich so rudely abandoned. “It’s a bit weird of you to be so demanding, like that. Can’t you just let it take its natural course? How would you feel if Sirius or Remus had forced us to go on kiss in front of them when we were still—you know, figuring things out?” I watch his throat move as he swallows, eyes on mine. “Surely you remember that was like. Well—what it was like, for me. Isn’t it enough to know they like each other and are learning how best to go about it?”

He blanches, stares a second, then sighs heavily. “You’re right.” I run my hand around the back of his neck and stroke my thumb along his hair, a familiar, soothing gesture. “How is it you’re always right?”

“I’m top of my class,” I answer, smiling.

“How about, and hear me out, here,” he leans over, hand on my thigh, mouth by my ear. “You consider being on top of _me_ , soon, here, in the future?”

“Uh, hullo, great hall, lunchtime rush?” Mary is leaning over the table, palms-first, appeasing to us desperately as I giggle somewhat shamelessly.

“Heads ought to have some semblance of decorum, I second her, there,” Peter pipes in.

I ignore them both, as I’m well-practiced at, and kiss James soundly, then return, finally, to possibly the best sandwich I’ve ever had the privilege or joy of eating.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darn but does winter drag me down. Look at me—I couldn't even choose between two lyrics to quote at the beginning, so I put both! Insufferable! 
> 
> Having such kind readers makes even dreary cold much better. Thank you thank you for the support! 
> 
> Just a reminder that if you'd like to follow me tumblr, I'm @efkgirldetective <3
> 
> TW: A bit of violence / use of derogatory sexual language

* * *

13

  
I am a forest fire  
And I am the fire and I am the forest  
And I am a witness watching it

—Mitski, “A Burning Hill”

I'm afraid of pain  
Both yours and mine

—Lucy Dacus, “Yours & Mine”

* * *

_Lily_

When I was six years old I fell out of a tree and broke my ankle.

I don’t remember much about it, only slivers of sensation: Crisp autumn air, hair pigtailed and too short for my liking, dad’s cry as he watched me fall. One slip of my foot and the rest of my body followed. It couldn’t have been that of a fall; the tree was barely off the ground, a short, gnarled crabapple. I was cushioned, for the most part, in scattered leaves.

At first I felt nothing; I felt fine. I saw my foot lying at a strange angle, but there was a disconnect between the pain and the injury. Like the pain was somewhere else, somewhere in the atmosphere around me, nebulous. My dad rushed over, panicked but trying to maintain an illusion of calm, his voice a force of overexcited composure.

He asked if my foot hurt, and that’s all it took: The pain slammed into me. I realized I was hurt. I felt it all at once.

This relationship to pain follows me the rest of my life.

***

It happens in the late morning.

The opener: Would this cluster of Slytherin seventh years mind not loitering in the middle of the History corridor during such a rush?

The response: Leering, cackles, the traditional “won’t be doing any sort of half-blood bidding, _actually_.”

The exhaustion: A surfeit, in my body (from the day, from the fight, from the history, from the life).

The request: Steadfast, calm. “No matter your house nor personal feelings toward me, I am the authority. I am in charge.”

The fact: _Of course_ this plays poorly, they are 1) shiny-haired, 2) small-nosed, 3) wearing glares that become their beauty rather than detract from it; their smirks implanted at birth.

The leader: Marlowe Pritchard, drawing herself up like a sleek swan borne from the water.

The question: “So what gives you the authority to fuck a pureblood, Evans?”

I know my skin goes deep and my self-worth, deeper; I know I have withstood callous remarks and disgusted stares and avoided duels and conflicts and futile squabbles countless times, even when beckoned, even when mocked, ridiculed, taunted. I have let it pass over me, unaffecting; I have spent myself on the pain, later, alone, tears hot and lonely and useless. I have let it make me stronger.

But here at the fringe of the group, visible among the gathered crowd, the shocked staring, the proud and daggering group of them: Kerstin Flinn, eyes downcast, looking uncomfortable.

Making no move to leave. Making no move to intervene.

I don’t know why this is the day I lose myself. Any combination of years might lead to it. Any combination of exhaustion. I feel drained of the ability to deflect, to ignore, to cast-off. Something fiery down the hollow of my throat—and I’m becoming a bluer version of myself, dark blue, pulsing with fumes of cool fire.

I meet Marlowe’s gaze head-on. “Does it make you feel better? To make me feel bad?”

Nostrils flare outward. Eyes roll, unperturbed. “Answer the question, _slag_.”

The word bounces off. “Surely you can do better than that, Pritchard,” I say, voice low and quavering. I watch her knuckles go white on the leather strap of her bag. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

She blinks, blank and elusive. Skin like snowfall. “What’s the saying, girls?” she purrs, slight arch in one perfectly-shaped brow. “A half-bleed’s only useful on her knees?”

A chorus of low snickers, surrounding. Kerstin’s eyes flick to mine briefly. She looks away quick, right back to her feet. A grind of hot anger pulses at the back of my neck. I clench my jaw against it, keep my mouth shut.

“I bet he only does it from behind, doesn’t he?” Marlowe bites. “So he doesn’t have to look at you when he comes in your filthy little snatch.”

Her eyes brighten. I know I am going red in the face from fury and humiliation. It prickles along my face like something alive. There’s a growing crowd around us but I’m blind to anything but her pink lips, so self-satisfied and calculated. Marlowe steps slightly closer to me now; too close for comfort.

“Or maybe,” she reasons evenly, “he just shoves his cock in that insufferable mudblood mouth of yours.” Her eyes blown so wide they’re almost all black. “Salazar fucking _forbid_ you should get the idea you’ve any chance at bearing impure life.” 

The blue of blind rage swallows me and I feel it thundering, pressing in from every side. It’s not me but a shadow of me that spits, “Fuck you.”

Marlowe is visibly hit. “ _Excuse_ me?”

My arms shake. Skin erupting in heat. I am outside of myself. “Fuck.” I sting even myself with the force of it. “ _You_.”

I see and hear the first hex, but barely feel my own counter-hex except for its taut echo in my head, like a tired reflex—a reflex not a millisecond too late, Marlowe barely flinching before she’s thrown a second hex, this one unfamiliar, a flash of bright, brutal blue; it hits me square in the side of my abdomen. I gasp at the smarting burn. She is ecstatic, shock and triumph erupting on her face like its own loaded gun—and then her clamped and hateful jaw, her “you’ll learn your place, _Head Girl,”_ her overzealous fist biting into the valley between my cheek and eye, a wave of red flashing far back behind my eyes.

This hit without reason or anticipation; bare flesh bolts on impact.

I blink through red and blue and black and see Marlowe’s face spelling out her conquest. I see Kerstin Finn turn her eyes from me, silky white-blonde hair the only thing between me and the blur of the now-frantic crowd, exclamations and mumbling and noise just an angry smudge of birds, crowding me in, suffocating.

I have one thought only: _Out_.

Marlowe laughs. Just once, shortly—as if I’m not worth the rest. An unforgiving sound. Someone says, “Evans? Evans? Evans—” and here, I feel the pain. I hear my name and I feel. The pain.

I touch my cheek, find something too big to be my face; fingers wet. I swallow and feel the pain. It demands to be felt. I shift sideways, catch one last glimpse of white-blonde silk. I angle blindly through the mass, the collage of faceless frightened faces. My feet. _Out._ Everything swings on a harsh diagonal. I do what is demanded of me. I feel the pain.

***

_James_

I am not immediately startled by Lily’s absence at the foot of the Astronomy tower. Sometimes she’s late out of Arithmancy, or early to study period with Ingrid and Mary and Remus, or caught up helping a poor first year who’s yet to figure out the nuances of navigating shifting staircases.

I feel minor confusion when I find Ingrid, Mary, and Remus already settled into study, sans-Lily. Sirius and Peter and I slide in, and I ask if anyone’s seen her. I receive several distracted shrugs and a “dunno, probably lecturing an unlucky soul on the benefits of rolling one’s shoulders back when walking” from Ingrid. I bristle and let it go and start in on Charms revisions with Remus.

Dorcas does a fine act of appearing calm when she arrives. She places a light hand on my shoulder and just says, “James, will you come with me?” Her tone, however: Instantly alarming. I turn, find a little burn of panic in her eyes.

There are notes of bewilderment and protest from the rest of the group, but I get up and follow her immediately, her pace hurried as we exit the hall. “Dorcas, what’s going on? What’s happened?”

She spares me a glance but doesn’t say anything until we’re clear of the hall entrance, halfway down the History hall. “Lily got in a fight with Marlowe Pritchard.”

“ _What_?” I hiss. Fear tightens my throat nearly closed. “When?”

“Just now. Between periods. I wasn’t there, just caught the tail end of...well the crowd was frantic but Lily was already gone, and so were the Slytherins. I asked Penny, er, don’t know her last—whatever, doesn’t matter, she told me what happened. She said—” Dorcas stops, abruptly, arms drawn along her torso as if to protect herself. “She got hit by a bad hex and Marlowe punched her, too. Right in the face. She said it didn’t...it look great.”

“ _Fucking hell_.” A flare of heat and anger and dread wraps my neck and face. “Where is she?”

Dorcas’ eyes shift uneasily. After a second, she resumes walking. We’re rounding the corner to the connecter wing to the greenhouses, a corridor composed mostly of locked storage closets and unused classrooms. “I came right to find you, I didn’t look for her, but I think she’s probably—she used to come down here, sometimes, when she was really put out—er, Snape-wise.” She swallows past something. Her face is reddening. “She didn’t like us following her after a fight like that, and I suspect this is no different, but—” She pauses, again. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“What?” I demand, uncaring of my callous tone.

Her eyes focus somewhere beyond my figure. “Like I said, I wasn’t there for the fight, but Penny made it sound like—” she shakes her head, as if she’s physically unable to continue. “Shit. It’s upsetting. I don’t—I don’t know how you’re going to react.”

“You’re fucking scaring me, Meadowes, will you just spit it out?”

She sighs exasperatedly. “You’re going to be angry, and you’re going to have to fucking cage that up, alright?”

“ _Fine_ ,” I snap.

She swallows again, tightening her grip on her arms. “Marlowe was being really—derogatory, and foul about—the two of you. You know. Sleeping together.” She winces and looks away. “Implication being...she’s your— _gods_ , but I can’t say it.”

A chasm of bright vehemence cracks wide open inside of me. “Where is she?” I manage to grind out between my teeth, eyes shifting frantically along all the row of unfamiliar doors. My anger is like an unattached thing, separate from my body. “Tell me which one she’s in.”

“James—” Dorcas begins, desperately. “You have to—I don’t really know if she’ll want to talk, after, I was just so worried, and I didn’t know—”

“Please?” and I hope this note of misery, of despondency, will reach her.

It does. Her eyes on me are helpless but still she motions, glumly, to the third door down from where we stand. “I think, probably, there.”

***

_Lily_

The room is an old refuge, from when Severus and I would row. Musty and unused. I transfigure a grimy chalkboard into a mirror so I can see what Marlowe has done to me.

I pull my shirt out of my waistband and find a violent stain from the hex. I pin my wand to the site and withdraw the abrasion; it threads out of me deep blue, clinging venomously to the tip of my wand, a swift and brutal pain washing up and down my side as it twists out. I bite my own fingers to keep from crying out. It leaves a shadow of itself on my skin; a nearly invisible bruise traversing ribcage and stomach. I breathe in deeply, let my shirt fall down.

The damage to my face is more obvious: A badly swelling welt where my right eye meets my nose, and a thin, bloody cut where a ring on Marlowe’s finger snagged the edge of my eye.

For a moment I think I might throw up at the sight. My stomach heaves for a long, agonizing minute, throat gagging on nothing. I wipe at my mouth and stare at myself. _Is this me?_ I take another deep breath—and then another.

This injury I decide to leave untouched.

I stagger into a clump of desks and slide down against the leg of one. It’s uncomfortable but grounding, the immediate stiffness in my back and neck a reminder that I’m only made of parts: Skin, muscle, bone. A collection of breakable things.

I squeeze my eyes shut and it stings.

I sit and listen to my wild pulse stilling. I tell myself her words have no effect on me. That even the physical pain isn’t bad, or painful, really. The throb of swelling dulls to an amenable pulse along nose and cheek. The bloody cut dries to a crust. My throat burns no matter how many times I swallow. And something else, slithering underneath, itching under the skin of my arms, of my cheeks, of my elbows; seething, cracking, hot. Diverged from a hard and persistent need to be _okay_.

Of course she is wrong. But in a dark and skulking part of me, an uncertain voice: _Maybe she's right._

I know it’s only a matter of time before someone tells someone and that someone tells someone else and that someone tells James. I know he will be frantic. I know he will find me and look at me with horrified eyes and ask what happened.

And I know with chest-choked certainty that I am in no way ready for that.

The door creaks open and footsteps. “Lily?”

He is smart and able-bodied and finds my figure, slumped, desk leaning. Slow footsteps, sharp intake of breath. Maybe my lack of response, my lack of turning, my palm limp at my side, face-up, defeated. Maybe that is scary. My knees crooked to my chest and useless feet hit the leg of another desk. I can’t imagine I look _well_.

“Are you hurt?”

His voice is gentle and calm and I want to resent him for it. I turn my face and see, now, in his eyes, how the wound must really look. He scrambles to his knees, crouching, gasping, “ _Fuck_ , Lily, _fuck_ , your—”

“No.” I say firmly. It’s not lost on me that once these roles were reversed. It was him insisting he was fine, he didn’t need help—and my panic was so full and immediate and pulsing that I _needed_ him to let me help him, as much for him as for me.

“Don’t touch me.”

James does stop, one knee clumsily bent, face flooded in anguish. I maintain his eyes without waver. “I want it to bruise. I want it to be there, next time she sees me.”

This is complicated for him. I see his throat at work; an interior battle. “Okay,” he says quietly. “The hex?”

“Gone. I took care of it.”

He wants to reach out; fingers twitch at his side. He is as nervous about my injury and demeanor as he is this tone in my voice, this tone cut in contempt. I do not sound like myself.

But if I were to let this reaction go—I don’t want to face what real sorrow lies beneath.

I hear his pained breath as he works out what to say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You seem to want to.”

His exhale isn’t angry, or anxious; it’s just air. He’s no footing, here. If I were better, I would tell him that neither do I. But the heat on my face is an indication that my anger has solidified, heavily, into pain meant to be thrown off, thrown at others, boiled down to something hard and unforgiving.

_Is this not just what they want? Marlowe, and the others?_

If I were better, I would simply ask for help. But I am not better. I am in pain.

His voice is quiet. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“Then why don’t you save yourself the trouble and not say it all.”

“You—” he tempers the bite of frustration he begins with into something even, something reasonable and soft. “It’s never going to end well, engaging them.”

“So you’re here to lecture.”

“No. No, I—” his tone is low and helpless. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, Lily.” The hurt pulses, contrary, along my cheek. “And I know that given the chance, they would hurt you much worse. Much, much worse.” He adds, quietly, “I’ve seen it happen before.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t remember?” I snap and shift forward on my knees, getting to my feet unsteadily, and I can tell this upsets him—his fingers, again, tensing at his side, face contorting in distress. He stands up, too. I waver where I stand and he reaches and I repeat myself. “Don’t touch me.”

His eyes flood with pain, but his hand snaps back.

“I have lived with this for so long, and I know—” my breath is aggravated. “I _know_ that biting back is just what they want.” I shake my head and turn my jaw into a hard line. “But you—you are not allowed to stand there and tell me not to _fight_. You’ve spent years doing just the same. I’ve watched you hurt yourself for lesser things.”

“That’s—” his brow a complexity of hurting. “It’s different.”

“Oh, it is? How?”

“It’s—you—you’re—”

“What? I’m _what_ , James?” I feel the pain and the crawling underneath meeting in the middle, the fury I felt standing in front of Marlowe returning in some twisted maniacal way, flung outside of my body. “I’m weak? I need protecting? I’m vulnerable? I’m angry? I’m hot-headed? I need _you_ to tell me what to do?”

“No, Lily, none of that’s—”

“I am my own person,” I retort, cutting him off, face heating immeasurably, throat closing in with anger and grief and irritation at him, at the fight, at Marlowe, at my eye and cheek, pulsing in pain and fresh heat—at the entire miserable state of things. Hot tears blind my vision but I’ll be damned if I let them fall, here, now. “And just because I’m with you doesn’t mean I will not or cannot fight for myself. I am _sick_ of letting them win. I am _sick_ of being the victim.” I pin my eyes to the ground. I am ashamed and unable to stop. “And now it’s not enough for them to taunt me just for being muggle-born, they’ve got to dig their claws into you and me as if—as if just I’m some—” a long and wallowed breath. “Some _thing_ to you.”

I look up and see the muted agony, see his mouth open to speak; I hold up a hand. “I know it’s not true. I know it’s bloody stupid to even give thought to insults that are meant to do just this—to get me angry.” I touch the backs of my knuckles to the stinging cheek and see that I am, after all, crying. “But there isn’t any good in ignoring the difference between us. Never mind there _isn’t_ any, really—there’s scores of people who think there is. It isn’t going to disappear. As long as we’re together, it’s there.” I laugh, shortly, without humor. “A little hurt now is the least of my concerns. I won’t sit by and wait to be killed. I won’t.”

There are several beats of heavy silence. His fingers bunch at his sleeves where I know he wishes he could reach for me, still. I wish I were less of a complication. I can only swallow, and add, “It’s shit to hear, but there’s a part of me that will hurt in ways you won’t understand. It’s not your fault. It’s just the truth.”

Desperate, golden eyes, voice cracking in the center. “Lily—”

“I’m not really angry at you. I am angry, yes, at myself, at—her. At them. _Fuck_ , does it hurt.” I close my eyes. “I just need space. You don’t need to worry about me, okay?” I open my eyes and look.

He does not want me to go. He is actively, deeply worried about me. He wants to explain to me every which way I am wrong. But he nods, slowly. He swallows hard. His voice an agonized thing. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine.” It sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. But I swallow against it and am walking out of the room before he can stop me, before he can convince me to stay.

***

_James_

I lay horizontally on my old four-poster, fingers sprawled in a sweaty clamp at my forehead, legs chucked over the edge. My body a chaos of nothing useless or clear. I feel dizzy. Throat unyielding. “Are you breathing, Prongs?” Someone pokes at my thigh. “I haven’t seen your chest move in like, a minute.”

I remove my hand for a second to find Sirius in his anxious, cross-legged perch, staring down with meteoric concern. Vision seems to make the spinning sensation worse, so I return my hand over my eyes. “I want to set the fucking dungeons on fire.”

“We can definitely...see to that,” he says, tone edged in hesitation. I’ve a feeling he’s having some sort of eye-conversation with Remus, who last I checked is sat over on his own bed.

I can’t stop seeing her turn to me from that shadow, looking like someone smashed her skull in against a jagged rock. I swallow back the horror of it. I try to quit hearing her thankless tone when she wouldn’t let me touch her, heal her, _help_ her.

“But just before,” I spit. “I’ve numerous choice words for Pritchard.”

“I mean, I’ve got an in, mate, last I heard she’s taken up with that bastard brother of—”

A swift knocking at the door cuts Sirius off. I remove my hand from my eyes just in time to watch Peter open the door, letting in—“Where the _fuck_ is she, Potter?”

Marlene, brilliantly red in the face, a brilliant fury blazing in her eyes, uniform disheveled, chest heaving. I begin to sit up, confused; exhausted. “I don’t—”

“Marls, for fucks _sake_ —” Mary rushes into the room so quickly that she bangs her head on the door, gripping it and immediately wincing while simultaneously attempting to tug at Marlene’s arm.

“ _Geroff_ _me,_ ” Marlene snaps, snatching her arm away. “He fucking knows where she is!”

I can’t get a good grip in this moment on what _I_ seem to have done wrong. “I actually don’t.”

“No, no, you do! You—” she rotates her head wildly, taking in the four of us, our nervous statures. “Dorcas said—”

“I saw her just during study, near the greenhouses,” I interject. “But she said she needed space. Haven’t seen her since.”

Marlene falters, shifting her weight awkwardly. “Well—what the fuck?” she huffs a frustrated breath, looking desperately to Mary. “She’s not—we looked— ”

“Marlene.” I recognize Mary’s tone; it’s the tone Lily sometimes takes with me when she is appealing to my affection, rather than my reason. “Let’s go back to the room. You know how she—gets,” she says, slanting her eyes sideways at me. “She’ll come round when she’s ready.”

“Yeah, tough chance of that.” Marlene replies, then adds, after a second, “In fact, _sod_ that.” Her eyes narrow and she stares brutally at a spot somewhere far away. “Think I’ll pay a visit to the ice queen herself, down below. Work out all this maddening vigor.”

Remus stands from his bed. “Is that the best—”

“Yeah, don’t think I’ll be taking advice from you lot,” Marlene says, nose crinkling. “Given all vengeful plotting you’ve managed on your own time.”

Remus turns to me desperately, as if he expects me to back him up, to try and stop Marlene. I probably should, but in this moment, I find myself lacking the willpower and rational thought to do either. “I’d never condone harm to an innocent party.”

Marlene’s eyes sparkle on me. Mary heaves an exasperated breath. Remus throws his arms up in similar frustration.

“Personally, I would suggest haste—and nothing that leaves a mark,” Sirius offers, examining his fingernails in a grand show of neutrality. “Less evidence should you get caught. You know.” He shrugs. “Hypothetically.”

Marlene nods curtly, then spins on her heel and makes to leave the dorm, calling, “Coming, Mary?”

“I’m not—gods, _Marlene_ —” Mary looks around at us, helplessly, briefly, before following with an irritated sigh and mumbling, _“fat lot of good this was to the cause of waiting patiently.”_

“ _That_ ought to make you feel just a little better,” Sirius says to me, uncrossing his tangled legs. “She’s wicked quick with her wand. Ever dueled her in Defense? She’s catty during, she’s got a sharp tongue.”

I bury my head in my hands and groan. “Might make it worse.”

“ _Worse_?” Sirius gapes. “Come on. Someone’s gotta knock Pritchard down a notch, or six. Very well can’t be you. Evans would never forgive.”

“She very well might not be pleased to learn he didn’t stop that,” Remus adds quietly. I turn and look at him, a knot of that exact concern gripping at me, pulse stuttered.

Peter approaches from across the room, hands in his pockets. “To be fair, sounds like Lily didn’t exactly stop _herself_ from dueling, earlier.”

“What a sodding mess,” Sirius mutters. “Don’t hate me for saying it, Potter, but I really wished I’d seen it.”

“Might share the sentiment if I wasn’t so keen on excommunicating an entire house from the Hogwarts ledger.”

“Um, are we going to dinner?” Peter asks, clutching at his stomach. “Not that this isn’t important, Prongs, but—” his stomach makes a strange gurgling, emphasizing his point on dinner.

I sigh into my hand. “You all go on. I’m not hungry. I’ll—I’ll just go back to the Heads and wait for Lily."

Sirius clasps his hand to the back of my neck as he climbs down from the bed. “Cheers, then.”

“Lads, I don’t think _James_ is in any state to be alone at the moment, actually,” Remus says, sending him a swift and pointed look. “And I don’t suspect the great hall is such a grand plan, either. Given the...company.”

Sirius pauses, hand still on my neck, and examines my face. I don’t meet his eyes. “Fucking hell, man. Fine.”

“Then I’ll go smuggle from the kitchens, yeah?” Peter offers brightly. “Dot and Millie owe me four or five favors, give or take.”

“Kitchen elves, Pete?” Sirius asks, befuddled. “Owing _you_?”

“Oh, piss off. Unlike the mass majority of tools at this institution, I don’t discriminate against a creature just because they’re indebted to serve us three meals a day. Dot and Millie are _friends_ , alright?”

Remus throws a pointed look in Sirius’ direction, then says to Peter, “You’re a saint. Want help?”

Peter’s quick to shake his head. “Nah, they’re more likely to sneak me off a package alone.” He snags his wand from his bedside table and snoops around to Remus’ trunk, rifling till he finds the Invisibility Cloak, and asks, “Map?”

Sirius flops over his bed, rummaging through his own mess of belongings for a second before finding the parchment and tossing it in Peter’s direction. “Thanks. Back soon.” He makes for the door, then glances to Sirius, calls, “Will only be getting cranberry fizz for drink! I know you’ve been dying for it!”

“Then you can perform the nasty complex antidote, arsehole!” Sirius calls after him. To Remus and me, he grumbles, “What kind of idiot develops a cranberry allergy at eighteen, anyway?”

“Idiot being the operative word, yeah?” Remus muses, but he’s sat down right next to Sirius and his grin is one crack away from flirtatious.

“Yeah,” Sirius says distractedly. 

“As if this is better than being alone?” I snap, and they both turn to me, flustered, as if they forgot I was in the room.

I look between their bewildered eyes for just a second, then exhale. I stand and move one bed over, slumping into the east-facing window seat. “Sorry,” I apologize quickly. “Actually might feel better if the two of you held hands.”

“She’s going to be alright, James,” Remus says firmly. I note, briefly, that Sirius has, indeed, taken his hand. “She’s headstrong, but she’s also _strong_.”

I believe him only halfway.

“And she’ll come back, and she’ll be fine, and you’ll snog and disappear for a couple of days to stare into her eyes.” Sirius adds. Then his eyes widen, inexorably. “Wait. Hang on. You taken 6,000 house points from Slytherin, yet?”

***

After spending just as much nervous energy as I can in Gryffindor tower I make my way back to my own dorm. On the other side of the hall, Lily’s room is dark and empty.

I try to put it out of my mind.

I fail magnificently, of course, but sit myself down at my desk and embark on a treacherous journey through Potions, then Charms, then Transfiguration. In the sliver of mental capacity remaining three hours later—the clock boasting quarter past eight—I begin on what I mistake to be a rather simple Astronomy assignment. Somewhere in the tangle of star systems, there’s a knock at my door.

My heart slams head-first into ribs. Before I’ve even moved a centimeter, the door opens and Lily pokes her head in. She sees my move to stand and says, “Don’t, it’s okay.”

I settle my tense body back into the chair. I am not unaware it’s the second time today she’s told me to stop, to not approach. She comes in and closes the door behind her and stands there staring at me from across the room. For a split second I convince myself she’s here to tell me we’re over, we’re through.

But then she walks over slowly and leans against the desk and looks at me with an unreadable face. The swelling red and black welt on her right cheek has gone down immensely since I saw it not hours ago. Just below her eyelid is a jagged cut I hadn’t noticed before. It is nearly scabbed over. 

It takes every ounce of my resolve not to seize her and demand a visit to the Infirmary.

Instead, I wait. She looks down at my hand, resting apprehensively on the desk. She reaches out to covers it, tentatively, with her own. I almost exhale in relief—but still, I wait.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

I shake my head. “What for?”

She takes in an unsteady breath. “I don’t know.”

A valley forms between my eyes for all my tension. “Lily.”

She slips just barely forward and winds her arms around my neck. She buries her face in my shoulder and I finally exhale the breath I’ve held since I first saw her, shadowed, hurt, blank-eyed. I encircle her gently with my arms; inhale the sweet scent of her hair, press a silent kiss to her shoulder. Her fingers grip my shoulders, tightening. I feel eyelashes nicking at my jaw.

We sit like this for a while. She breathes in great swathes. I run through a million things I could say; I don’t say a single one of them, knowing that it’s not the right time. Not yet.

Eventually, Lily inhales deeply and emerges from my neck. “I know there are things to talk about.” She looks immeasurably tired. “But can we do that later?”

I nod automatically. For all the questions and fears roiled inside me, nothing is as important as having her here, seeming just a bit more like her normal self, letting me hold her. The green of her eyes is offset by the discolored swelling. I want to kiss the injury, but I do not want to hurt her.

She says, “Come take a shower with me.”

***

Lily has done remarkable spellwork to her shower that I never noticed on cursory glances. She expanded it, for one, into a wide rectangular stall rather than the tiny square corner mine takes up, just a wall away. She’s ensconced multiple small shelves into the tiled wall to hold all manner of bottle and soap and scrub. The tiles themselves—a rather dull yellow in my own—she’s spelled into an iridescent sapphire that evokes a high-summer wave, shimmering without light.

Clothes already ditched, I climb through the sliding glass door and reach to turn the spout. The spray must also be charmed; it’s less harsh and direct than the pressure in my own shower. “Like a spa in here.” Her answering smile is small, but it’s a smile, and it breaks me minutely to see. I offer a hand to her as she steps in.

“What’s that I smell?” The aroma seeming to rise from the growing billow of steam is fresh and earthy.

“Eucalyptus,” she replies, reaching to slide the door shut. “I owe the charm to Mary, she used to make our dorm showers smell really lovely.”

I see now where Pritchard’s hex hit her. There’s a faint purple mark reaching up her left side. It spans wide, but is shallow. Lily sees what my eyes have found and says, “It’s okay.” I want to say _no it’s not, it’s not okay_ but I just stare at the shadow under her ribs, as if I can make it go away just by looking.

She touches a finger to my chin, averts my eyes. “Can I wash your hair?” Her voice is gentle and I would do anything for her, anything. I nod.

I step into the spray of water. It feels like gentle rain. I watch as she reaches for a bottle and dispenses shampoo into her palms, rubbing them together and reaching up to my wet hair. I close my eyes to the touch. Her fingers are slow, massaging the fragrant shampoo into a soapy lather. It feels unreasonably good. “What’s this flavor?”

Her laugh falls soft amidst warm water. It is such a real sound that I’m punctured by it. “ _Scent_ is camellia and lily. The, er, flower. Not me.”

“You smell just as good,” I assure, the back of neck relaxing infinitely with the feel of her hands sweeping back along my hairline. Her thumbs stroke firm circles above my ears and tingling warmth spreads over my scalp. The shampoo rinses off of me down the sides of my neck, drips down my chest. I feel her move closer to me, body near without touching. Her fingers spread back right at my forehead, lingering; she lets them fall along the side of my face, the wet, rinsed hair flopping back down uncooperatively. Here she loiters. Touches fingertips to the space below my eyes. I can only hear the water. She turns her hands so the knuckles brush over my cheeks; lips part instinctively. Thumb along my mouth. I open my eyes and blink rapidly through falling water.

“Can I do yours, now?”

She nods and turns from me, stepping out of the stream of water, and brushes the thick curtain of hair over her shoulders. I bend for the bottle and pour a few drops into my hands, mimicking her palm-rubbing motion. I begin kneading my fingers over her scalp, digging gently downward through heavy sections of strands to disperse the suds evenly. Her hair is much longer wet, the edge of it reaching down past shoulder blades.

“Will you come back to the water?”

Just before she does, she reaches onto the shelf for a wide-toothed comb, which she hands back to me. I run a careful hand under the shroud of hair, lifting it off her shoulders so I can run the comb along its length to rid it of shampoo. I keep the motion of the brush gentle and slow, wary of catching tangles or tugging at her scalp as the lather rinses out. The teeth run through each section of strands, and when I’ve made it to the other side, I repeat motion backward, bringing the teeth under the hair and moving down.

I hear her exhale, and something in it snags at me. My hand pauses at her shoulder, tentative. “Alright?” I am startled to find that under my fingers, a rattling; small, but persistent. “Lils?”

Her hands are brushing at one hip, knotted together, chattering at the skin like teeth in the cold. I catch just the hint of a breath, deep and uneven, and I turn her body toward me gently, brush clattering to the tiles below.

Lily’s arms are trembling, her face gone slack and agonized, lips rubbing together feverishly, as if to keep herself from speaking. I go instantly cold, and bring my hands to her wrists, stop their shaking. “Lily?”

She swallows convulsively, mouth parting for unsteady air, and she shakes her head, wordlessly, again and again and again.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” I say gently, though the tide of desperation and sorrow pitching over her is a force that frightens me beyond my earlier fear—and of course she’s unmoored, here, cast away from herself. I see her resolve to remain defiant, to be brave. I see, too, beyond the veneer to a shaky vulnerability beneath, an impulse to crack needling at all of her edges.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “You can let go.”

There is a sound—cut between a breath and a gasp—and then whatever composure kept her crumbles and her throat opens, raw and sudden with sobbing, body shivering violently under the spray of water. She plummets face-first into my chest, the force of her anguish driving her hands down to the bones of my shoulders, pressing hard; I step backward, urged to the wall behind, clutching at her back and neck to subdue her shuddering; to hold her. She turns her cheek against the wet of my chest and heaves her startled cries, lungs tortured for air, fingers curling harshly at my collarbones, grasping for something to hold. I press my face and lips to her wet hair and murmur _it’s okay_ , _you’re safe_ , _I’m here, it’s okay, it’s okay_.

Her grief is an animal. I feel it thumping in her neck, in her ribs. Screaming for release. The spray of the shower thrums distantly. My own heart nothing of use; no weapon or killer. I wish for all the world I could cut it right out of my chest, let the animal feed on it. What does pain love so well as other pain?

Lily turns her lips to the middle of my chest and gasps something inaudible, something caught between the shaking and the blade of my pulse. I clear plastered strands of hair from her face, flushed and knotted in misery, from the billow of steam. She raises her head, eyes blurry and red-rimmed, still—and always—beautiful; three little freckles, along the nose. I kiss them before I even have the thought to. She clambers at my shoulder, gasping. I run my thumbs along curving jaw and see in her eyes something that doesn’t require explaining. I press my lips to her forehead briefly and reach behind me, awkwardly, to turn off the water. “Lemme get a towel,” I murmur, her eyes following me helplessly as I slide open the glass door and reach for a towel on a nearby rack.

When I turn she is still standing in the shower, face an exposed thing, looking to me with such unpretentious frailty that I feel my heart rift through with it. She steps out into the towel I hold open. I wrap it around her tightly, summoning my wand to conduct a drove of drying and warming charms. Her hair billows out in sweet-smelling waves, skin evaporated of droplets.

She stares at me almost catatonically now, tears overflowing silently. I inhale and bend myself slightly, lifting her gently with an arm under the knees. Her arms instinctively reach for my neck. “There we are,” I say, kicking past a pile of clothing to step into her bedroom and place her down on the bed. She looks misplaced in the towel; smaller than she is. “Let’s get you in some clothes. Sound good?”

Her nod is small, but affirmative.

I rustle quickly through her chest-of-drawers, mindlessly pulling at cotton knickers, a pair of sweatpants, a wooly jumper I recognize as my own. These I bring to her and find new tears, a kind of harried swallow-breathing moving through her lungs; I scrap the clothing and kneel next to the bed, holding her cheeks in my fingers, saying, “Lily, it’s okay, breathe, breathe.” Her lips part to breathe and instead she sobs, once, a hollow, aching sound, craved out from something deeper. “I know, I know,” I murmur, mindlessly, though I’m not sure I _do_ know, I just know she is somewhere I can’t pull her from alone, not fully, not ever. One deep breath and she closes her mouth into something like silence, chest hiccupping unevenly. “That’s it—you’re safe. Deep breaths.” Another deep breath, another. Her eyes close and her hands attach to my wrists, thumbs spanning my thumbs.

I sit in her re-steadied breath without moving. I know she needs an anchor. When her eyes blink open, the green seems a small amount brighter, and I will take this. Anything. I reach for the underwear and pants, help her step into them, maneuver them up around her hips, hands steadied on my shoulders. She takes the jumper down over her head and swallows, lifting her eyes to the ceiling.

“Little better?”

She looks down at me and nods and brushes wet hair off my forehead and nods again. “Will you lay down with me?”

I nod. “Let me just find pants.”

She shuffles back onto the bed, slipping beneath the coverlet and quilt. I perform a much shittier drying spell on myself, one that leaves my hair slightly damp; I couldn’t care less. I scan the room for a pile of my clothes I know to be hanging about and alight on the stash near the window seat. I rifle through for sweatpants.

When I slide into the bed next to her, her legs stretch out, interweave my own. She breathes, for a moment, at my throat. “Don’t go,” she whispers. “Don’t go.” I spread fingers tightly at her back and nestle so close to her hair that blinking entangles lashes in strands. I blink. I blink.

“Not going anywhere.”

***

_Lily_

I wake slowly and hours later. A deep purple haze shelters me still, sticking along my eyelids. Sometime in my sleep I turned onto my back. James is curled around me, arms heavy on my waist like anchors. Steadfast. I stare at him in the dark and listen to his even breathing. How intimate the act of seeing him sleep. How severely I ache for him, even so close. I move out from under his arms and he adjusts, slipping onto his back, head turning away from me, chest emptying with a long, full breath.

I sit for a long second at the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor. I close my eyes and find the grief and anger slower; snarled words from an old story. Heartbeat even and calm. I remember the cracking inside, in the shower, a dam breaking in favor of thick, vibrant pain. I find the pain a calmed river, now, water frozen over with resignation.

I go into the bathroom. I use the toilet and clean my hands and organize the mess of clothing on the floor into neat piles. I find myself in the mirror. My injury has changed to the purple of early twilight, a breath from blue. The cut is red, still, bright red. I blink along it and barely feel anything. I suck in a breath and tie my hair back and wash my face in cold water. I feel okay. I remember, now, James holding me in the shower, his eyes on me, him _seeing_ me, and then carrying me out—it feels like many years ago. It thrums through me, shimmering, like a protective spell.

I brush my teeth and rub a smidgeon of healing balm over the injured cheek. I don’t want it to fade completely, but I don’t want to cause myself further damage. I decide this is a healthy conclusion to come to, given the turmoil of unhealthy emotion that ransacked my afternoon and evening.

In the dark slip of room my coming back wakes James, his back shifting, brow pleating, arms reaching out. “ _Mmmurgh_ , Lils? What’s—?”

I kiss his jaw once, twice. Slide into the refuge of his body. “ _Shhh._ Go back to sleep. Everything’s okay.”

Despite this, his eyes creak open. He swallows and shifts closer, lethargic, warm beneath covers. Even in this dark he finds my cheeks. I am close enough to see his bleary eyes. He stares at me a long time. He inhales deeply, and I am rinsed in the tide, laid bare.

“You aren’t weak.” His voice roughened by sleep. “I know you don’t need me to protect you.”

“James.”

He shakes his head; strokes my jaw with gentle hands. “The impulse won’t leave me, but I can learn ...I can’t stop being afraid for you, but I can trust you.” I reach for his neck. “I _do_ trust you. Unquestionably.” When he gulps I feel it under my fingers. A sigh of quiet exasperation. “I don’t know how to wrestle these inequalities. I want to _fix_ them. And maybe there’ll be a chance, but—” the exasperation simmers, lingers. “I know it’s going to be brutal.”

My fingers edge up through his hair. I can see, just barely, the crack along his forehead, his worry and fear. I lean closer and press a hand to where his heartbeat thumps. “I’m sorry. My instincts are privileged. I forget the hurt they put you through, just because they can.” Blustering breath. “I can step away from myself and be there, when you need me. It’s not—I just—your pain hurts me, too, and I can’t do much about that, but I need to listen more and just—be there. I will be there, I promise, if that’s all I can promise you, truly.”

I _am_ weak, despite what he says, despite what _I_ think, and all I can do is a shake of the head, feel the steady thrum under my hand, find his mouth with my mouth, slow and fleeting. “Thank you.” I breathe, and lean in, forehead caught by his. “Thank you, but you’re too hard on yourself. You take the hurt away without doing anything, just being here.” He kisses me fuller, now, like a reverberation of light tugging free all my loose ends. “It’s a shit world,” I murmur around his lips. “But much less shit with you.”

I move my body over his; his hands rush up my back to steady. He looks up at me like I’m moonlight. He has dressed me in his own jumper, one I nicked—and it smells like him, smells just like him, under me, blinking. I stare at him for a while, as he did not a minute ago, debating whether or not I should open the floodgates I’m about to open.

“What is it?” he asks.

I sigh, and swallow, and steel myself. “Marlene bickered with Marlowe after dinner. She landed us all in the Headmaster’s office.”

“What?” James nearly coughs against his surprise, scrambling upward and taking me with him as his back chafes the headboard. “What happened?”

I settle a thigh on either side of him, adjusting to the sudden shift. “It wasn’t nearly so physical,” I motion toward my eye and he winces and reaches for my hand, clasping it tightly in his fingers, kissing my fingers. “But Marls screamed at her something horrible and it drew attention. Professor Gibbons heard and took their wands even before any spells were thrown, and then I got a summons from Dumbledore not soon after.

James’ fingers tense on mine. “Marlowe’s punished, then?”

I shake my head. “I have to go back, tomorrow afternoon. Dumbledore said he wants to have a look at the memory.”

“What? How?”

“In a pensieve.”

His head falls back against the headboard as he releases a shaky rush air. “Holy hell.”

I share the sentiment. When Professor Dumbledore had requested I return to the Headmaster’s tower the following day, a string of unease had unspooled in the pit of my stomach. “It’s just that Marlowe wouldn’t speak about what happened—she wouldn’t even look at me. She denied everything.” I shake my head, remembering my cold shock that she would lie so blatantly to Professor Dumbledore, who has the authority to expel her if he saw fit. “I’m not sure why she did that. It’s only going to get her in worse trouble.”

“She should be expelled,” James says with a tone so contemptuous and bitter that I look at him sharply. “She attacked you! And not just with magic, Lily, she _physically_ attacked you! He’ll _have_ to expel her when he sees that!”

I swallow. “He won’t. He’ll dole a harsh punishment but—you know he’s a strong advocate for second chances."

James closes his eyes; perhaps the memory of Severus’s own slip from expulsion too painful to contemplate. “Why does he let them get away with this? He’s _encouraging_ them, for fuckssake! He’s _rewarding_ their behavior!”

“I disagree.” I say it quietly. James begins to shake his head but I seize his chin and say, “James, listen to me. He knows, as you should, too, that no punishment could rid them of what’s _inside_ of them—the rotten parts, inside. They’re not looking to be changed. Expulsion would only create a worse fury.” His head bucks against my hand, dregs of his own anger sketched all over his face. “It’s—I know it’s infuriating. I _know_.”

“It’s not fair,” he whispers with such a lonesome helplessness that I want to cut it out of him and crumble it with bare hands. “I hate it.”

“I know. I know.” I press the back of my palms to his chest, which heaves in frustration. “But you said it yourself, earlier, didn’t you? Nothing good comes from engaging them. It doesn’t eliminate any animosity, it—it makes it worse. And besides that, it’s _exactly_ what they want. The only way to win, the rest of this year, at least, is to disengage.” I laugh a little. “Which I need to internalize, myself, clearly.” 

James appears unconvinced “It’s rubbish that you’re using my own advice on me.” He sucks in a breath, blinking as I stroke at his cheek. “Why’s it got to sound so much more sensible coming from you?”

I laugh again, fuller this time. “I’m usually the more rational between us, remember? It’s just I wanted to carry the ‘poor impulse control’ torch for a bit.”

“Lily...”

“Okay, sorry. Scrapping the joke.” I kiss his nose. “The _good_ news, I can report, is that Marlene’s not in any sort of trouble, actually, and she’s terribly pleased with all she got in Marlowe’s ears. So I suppose I should thank her—and also you, for _not_ doing anything like that.”

His eyes flash instantly. “I wanted to.” The urge is still there, I hear, poised at the edge of his tone.

“ _That’s_ why I’m thanking you.” I brush our lips together, briefly. He hesitates, eyes wary, still licked in irritation. “You were respectful of something I didn’t even ask. That means everything to me.” I press my lips to his again, more insistently, firmly, and he finally relents, returning the kiss. I sigh against his mouth, wondering if he might be inclined as I am, increasingly, to leave this conversation behind in favor of something else.

“Blimey, Lils,” he murmurs. “Did this all happen just today? You ought to get a week off of classes for what you’ve been through.”

I rock backward on my thighs and reach my hands up over my head to stretch out my torso of soreness. “No way. Classes are my best distraction from any and all impending doom.” His hand has crept up, brushed over my exposed abdomen, tingling on bare skin. I let my arms fall. “You are, too.”

He looks away, suddenly, and heaves a complicated breath. I intuit this pause to be Marlowe, her desire to intrude—to pontificate, without permission—on our private sexual relationship. I close my eyes for a brief second. “She knew it would hit me the worst, saying you were just using me for sex.”

James looks back to me, immediately, forehead wrinkling.

“And she was right,” I say quietly. “It did hurt. Even if I know it isn’t true.”

After a moment, he says in a painstakingly even tone, “We can talk about it. You can tell me, Lily. If you’ll tell me, I want to hear.”

“I will tell you.” I say, because I will, just not now. “Just...later.”

He swallows, then nods. His hand has stilled at the waistband of my sweatpants, and he observes me carefully for a long second, before heaving a heavy sigh, as if he’s not sure this is the direction we should be going in given the topic of conversation. “Am I misinterpreting your look?”

I bring my body closer, hands falling to either side of his head at the wood behind. Strands of hair fall from around my shoulders to sweep the edges of his face. “What look do you think I have?”

“I’m not wearing glasses.” He shudders a breath. “I could be projecting.”

“You’re not.” I arch my neck forward for his mouth, an aching, plying kiss that burns me, shivers down my spine. I sit back, seated on his lap in a way I know is affecting, given the way his hips shift, the way his throat clenches. “When I came back, earlier, I wanted you. That’s why I asked for a shower.”

Now he stares in unconcealed desire. “Lily.”

“Maybe it was irresponsible to want you in that state, but having you always makes me feel grounded.” I touch a finger to his lips. His fingers pluck up my sides, cool on bare skin. “When you carried me— _Merlin_ did I feel held.” I tug my teeth along my lower lip. “Maybe it’s vain, but your strength...” I push myself up on his bare arms, strong and tense beneath my fingers, my stare, “is very sexy. You’re so capable.”

I barely need to settle my hips wider now to feel the further effect of my words. I know I’m stroking a part of his masculinity I rarely appeal to, and I can tell he is torn between modesty and preening; either aside, he groans as I slide my hands up his arms and down his chest, pausing miserably slow over his nipples. His soft “ _oh_ ,” as I lean forward, place gentle kisses on each cheek, along the crown of his brow. His fingers traverse my ribcage carefully—I feel him slow ever so slowly across the shadow of the hex. I find his eyes as hands brush the underside of each breast; I push myself further into his touch, aching for his thumbs over my nipples, sweeping.

But he pauses, face gleaming up at me, vivid, somehow, despite the dark.

“I’m not sure I deserve you.”

Something is faltering in his eyes, and I feel an immediate and frantic response in myself, a jolt of desperation to rid that damned Slytherin from his headspace. “Don’t say that. Don’t let her in.” I take his face tightly between my hands and look at him with all the intensity I feel, body blooming like a lonely, untouched thing. “How could she know?” I demand, gently. “How could she know anything about this?” His skin is warm under my fingers but his eyes still flounder. “How could she know that when I’m with you I don’t feel the heaviness of other things?” A finger shifts, dashes under his eye. He blinks and I feel the brush of eyelashes. “Or that when you kiss me it’s like light, it’s a stream of steady light?”

I reach under the jumper and cover his hands in mine; take both hands over my heart. “How could she know that I never feel more beautiful than when you look at me? That you make me like myself better? That I was uneasy in my skin till you touched me?” His grip on me tightens. His brow furrows. “No one could ever know those things about me. About us.” I tug a finger down his lips. My voice is merely a whisper, now. “Only you.”

James pushes his back up and off the headboard and his hands come up my back so swiftly I am helpless but to sway into the embrace. It’s written all over his face—the frustrated garden moment, his _that’s the definition of falling in love_ , the pain and the desperation and the tug—and yes, I love him, too, but unevenly, imperfectly, without any confidence or faith in myself.

But I do have faith here, now, in his skin, warm and real under my hands, in taking his mouth again on mine, languidly, in wanting for his skin like a knife wants for blood.

He lifts me with the same strength as before, lays me back on the bed. I push my arms up and let him remove the jumper, let him pull the tie free from my hair, his hands running back up through its heaviness as he leans down and kisses me, his attention careful and close, touch skimming down me like I am something delicate and worth loving; something bright.

I pull myself up enough to hook my fingers along his pants and tug them down. He swallows as his length springs free, already half-eager. I wrap a hand around him; his chest concaves with quick breath. We hold each other’s eyes; my fingers slow and searching. He hardens in my hand. I watch his throat bob. “Lily.” He huffs when I sit up again, maneuver his sweatpants further down so he will take them all the way off. I do the same with my pants and underwear, thinking that he dressed me in them, wanting me to feel warm, safe, held. I stroke a hand over his cheek and smile.

Something cracks down his face. He bends for my lips, tasting them gently, makes for my neck and throat. He breathes in, deeply, between my breasts. A hand dips between my legs. My thighs squirm and settle. I keen softly. His fingers are lethargic, plying. My back arches with sighing. His breath is warm on my neck when he whispers, “Remember the first time?”

“That you fingered me?”

He laughs a little, kissing slowly along my shoulder. “No, that we shagged.”

“Oh.” I soften with the remembering. “Of course.”

He slips a hand back through my hair. My scalp tingles. “You let me be on top for barely a minute,” he’s smiling, lips at my cheek, pressing a hand to my thighs, settling them wider. “When you came over me like that...I could barely believe I hadn’t passed away.”

“I lost my patience,” I admit, kissing him in hopes of portraying a similar attitude. He laughs on my lips. “Because it felt so good,” I add, brushing his mouth with two fingers. “I wasn’t used to—well, sensation-wise, er, there’s such a sizeable difference—”

James whips his eyes to mine, a warning in them. “You—don’t you go telling me that right now, Evans,” he groans. “I can’t take any more of this ego-stroking. I’m trying to make _love_ to you.”

I rub my lips together and turn to kiss his hair and reach down for his cock, guide it where I need it most. “Please. Make love to me. Slow. Very slow.”

He emerges from my neck and stares down at me seriously. “Having me on?”

“No.” I kiss him just as serious. “I want it really slow.”

This he takes straight to heart. It begins—and remains—deathly slow. His thighs pressing gently to my thighs, body bent over me to receive lips and such tedious kiss, intersected by the breath he pulls. It isn’t unusual that I should find his eyes during such an act, but most often other things get in the way—speed, frustration, position. Here, my arms crossed over his shoulders, his hips splendidly thorough, I am gifted a prolonged, unbroken stare. I watch, reverent, as his cheeks darken with red, as sweat curls his dark locks, his brow, crests at his upper lip; I feel the sweet gust of air from his broken breath, see his throat tense in with absorption, mouth curling in appreciation when my fingers bunch at muscled thighs, sweep up his arse and back, all hot, slicked in exertion. His pupils dilate on mine, slow-blinking, gold-rimmed, brimming adoration.

Perhaps this is the clearest and most painful indication of devotion we can manage, building so slowly to a peak oft handled with impatience; perhaps our bodies are weakened by grief and pulled from fear, happy just to be bodies; relieved just to be loved.

James takes my tongue, pliant and painstaking; my whimpering builds, carved out. We are inside of ourselves. He smiles down on me when the breath takes on a higher pitch, when my fingers tense on his neck and cheek, his “feel good?” and my breathless, “ _yes,_ ” my breathless “I love being able to watch you” and his brightening cheeks, my ensuing, pleading, “kiss me,” which he obliges until my limbs are liquid, trembling beneath, until my hips ache with tension and his breathing falters, cut in two by groaning, and he gasps onto my lips, face wrenched in euphoria, brow pressed firmly to mine; the end, like the start, tender, lethargic, and ringing; a gentle sting. “ _Oh_. _Oh. Oh._ ”

***

Later, after I wake a second time—brighter, well-rested—he asks again to hear. I settle myself between his legs, back to his chest, arms circling arms, and tell him about the fight. I tell him everything Marlowe said. The words feel weird and wrong in my mouth, but I maintain a steady tone, flinching only on the last; “bearing impure life” gloms in my mouth like a bite of rotten fruit.

James buries his face in my shoulder and I grip his forearms hard, feel the rage pulsing through, looking for an outlet. I feel tears sliding off his cheek onto my shoulder; I kiss his hair, hold his cheek, tell him I know the person she accuses him of being isn’t him; I _know_ him. I hold him like this for maybe an entire millennium. He is shaking behind me. He says “ _fuck_ ” like it’s the only word fit for such a voiceless pain. “ _Fuck_.” He drives thumbs under his eyelids and exhales into my hair. “What am I supposed to do with this anger?”

There is no easy answer. I have the anger, too, and I have nowhere to put it. But there is my need for him; always an unstitched wound. I drag his hand along my abdomen. “Channel it into something useful, something kinder.” I take his hand down between my legs and arch into the touch. I roll my neck backward to find his mouth. He kisses me softly, without anger, without speed; I want to spread the crease in his brow out with my hands. I want him to understand. “Yes,” I gasp as his fingers slipping inside, lovely and warm. He whines aggravatedly, plants a sprawl of fingers at my thigh. I nip at his cheeks and chin and lave my tongue over his lower lip, tugging with teeth. His eyes still watery, golden oceans; he seems an ocean away. “Baby,” I breathe. “Stay with me.” My hips cant compulsively. His fingers spread out and slide slower now, riding the juts of my movement.

“I hate that she hurt you.” It’s quiet and low and exhaled. My hips slow, though his fingers do not stop. He presses his thumb to the crest and I cry out, unable to stop myself, breath harsh and sped, his mouth latching, now, to the curve of my neck.

“I know. I know.” The only thing I can say to explain that I _know_ , that I understand, that I can’t help it anymore in myself than I can in him—but by gods if this can’t be something gentler, something stronger between us, rather than something she unravels. Let it thread us together.

I want to stitch myself to him now; and again, and always.

He drives his fingers down harshly, and I keen, back arching, bum thrust back into his hardness. He presses my name down into my shoulder. His fingers slip along my hips, leaving a trail of my wetness. I grasp his chin and drag him back to my mouth, tongue helpless and wanting and mean. I settle backward, his cock springing up between my legs, the broad pink tip already leaking. I grasp it and pull, his fingers filling up with my tits, clutching at hardened peaks. My hips now vehement in my pursuit, rolling forward to feel his slippery length, hungry for friction. “I need you,” and I’m begging as if deprived, arm crooked painfully to scratch my fingernails along his neck, desperate for lips, teeth, tongue. “I need you, James.” And this, evidently, is all it takes, he’s lifting up my hips with both hands, my feet scrambling to aid on the bed, and when I’m positioned I sink down onto him, the filling unimaginably slow; I release my punctured breath; he moans obtusely, and long. His thighs tense under the flesh of my arse. “You feel like heaven, Lily, gods.” I watch him watch where we meet, eyes glazed over, gone from this plane.

“Like heaven,” he repeats, breathlessly. 

I am already so close that I have to take this slow; hips rotating, spinning minutely, and it must be intensely torturous for him, flush inside of me, but he clips his fingers at my waist and groans, empty of complaint. I plaster myself against him and reach again for his neck, his lips, his breathy kisses, pausing in rapture when he brings fingers to the thatch of wiry curls and moves with my circling, the buzz insufferable and swift. “Oh, gods,” I am keening, barreling forward till my hands can clutch his thighs, “I’m already—James, are you—tell me where you are, baby.” Scrabbled into a rough horizontal, back flattened and knees along his legs and hips canting forward so I can slide up his length and thrust backward, deliciously slow. His breath huffs in short, agonized spurts. “If I’m to stare—if I’m to see your arse sliding back, fucking me, I—” I slither back, dipping back onto him, to emphasize the view. “Fuck, Evans, you _know_ your thighs alone could finish me.”

A triumphant smile steals my lips; _there’s_ the Evans. His teenage lust tapped. There’s something covetous, now, in his fingers wrapping my thighs to roughly aid my movement. I want him to seize me, fuck me into the mattress, leave my thighs shaking with the imprint of his hands—and I am gone enough myself to know that if I ask for this, if catch him in the right moment, desperate himself for release, he might oblige. I slow off his cock and sit slightly up, hands propped on warm, hairy thighs, returning to his heaving chest. My hair obscures my face and he brushes it away and I pin his wondering, eyes with mine and whine, “Fuck me.”

This does it. He digs a hand along my jaw, whimpering, legs scrambling jaggedly sideways till he’s on his knees behind me, prick prodding the curve of my arse, one arm slid securely around my waist. I clasp my hand over the arm and buck back against his hips. “Please, love.”

James sweeps my hair over one shoulder to suck at where my neck meets my spine; I shiver violently, roll my hips back, again, harder. I feel the imprint of his teeth on my skin and then he’s pushed back in and my neck weakens as if my spine’s been plucked from my body. “Oh, _gods_.” His next thrust so quick and so perfect that I cry out for it, hips vibrating, his own sound a mix between laughter and groaning, “sweet Merlin, Lils, you—” I tug his head round the curve of my neck, laughing, too, now, at how foolishly good it feels, his fingers digging hard at my hip, his teeth and tongue hot between mine. “It’s so good,” he whines, “you’re so good,” and I take his tongue in my lips, gasping, “I know—don’t—don’t you stop—” but I’m choking through words, dumbstruck, paralyzed by the rapture of sudden speed, his burrowing hardened and quickened, its bright intrusion along my hips and between my legs as devastating as his moaning, guttural and undone, constantly coming undone; I gasp from his mouth, unable to be without his tortured gaze, brow furrowed, cheeks two planes of bright pink.

I feel cracked open by him; by his eyes; by his hold on me; by his broad fingers palming breasts; by every swift jut of hips becoming an unbearable confusion of pleasure and pain. My keening may as well be sobbing, a sound so violent and breathy it forces my throat open, and from the look on his face I can tell he is seconds from coming, eyes blackened beyond, breath like tortured wind, arm at my waist so tight I am powerless to movement of my own, his frantic fucking a blur of skin and hipbones slamming; bodies succumbed to the anarchy of sensation. A bright column of ecstasy swallows me as I yank his hair through my fingers and stare and stare and watch as the gold drains away completely.

“Don’t you _dare_ look away from me, Potter.”

He bites at my mouth, helpless to disobey, and it’s my lip between his teeth that propels me, unthinkingly and spasmodically over the edge into orgasm, thighs clenching erratically as his thrusting boils me down to just a single point of vicious light; blistering neon. Yellow floods my eyes and his own barreling descent—punctured with my fingers sliding at his arm, gripping hard, by his splintered calling of my name—ends suddenly, cock slating into me and spilling quickly, thickly, and long. My knees quake with the force, sliding in and out on bedsheets in an effort to devour all I can of such an exquisite feeling, so that I might tie myself to it, tie him to me—tie us to this space, here, the only place I’ve never felt fear.

James hums catatonically, cheek rushing against mine, lips trembling, hair sweaty and beautiful between my fingers. “Gods, Lils, your face when you come, _gods_.” I whimper and neck him messily, senselessly, full still with him, inner-muscles clenching erratically for any dregs of joy—but he’s displeased, somehow; a carnal moan sounds from his throat and before I’ve any say in the matter I’m flipped forward by his tense arms and tossed down onto the mattress, hot hands spreading back my thighs so his tongue may spread up and down my cunt like a maniacal thing, an unrelenting thing—and this sensation so intensely vulnerable, near-painful, nerves unendurably sensitive from orgasm, his come still inside of me, all of my skin heated as if burnt and still; here he is, concentration feral and unbidden by my neck thrashing helplessly to the side, fingers pulling at his hair. “Fucking _hell_ , Potter,” I manage, barely audible, as I watch him bob incessantly, “I already—” and now he flattens his body down further onto the bed and his eyes flick up to mine and I realize that he knows. He knows and now he wants to know if he has this power, to make me come twice in quick succession; if I am so weak under his tongue that I will soon heat to a boil, will cave in on myself like a dying star, throwing off molecules.

Bright eyes pinned to mine, fingers spreading me open, his tongue begins a hazardous darting in and out, frantic and glorious, and then this sucking—this _sucking—_ at my swollen center, unyielding, diabolical; he’s latched with abandon such that I am tilted, harder and closer with each breath—then he’s pulling back, mouth a bloated smirk, fingers diving inside of me with a force so brutal it stings but stings _well_ and I realize with sudden clarity how loud I am moaning, voice a thing separate from my body. And James has such gall as to fold down over my chest, now, to consult roughly with each nipple, tongue hot and wet and laving, and it’s too much to stand, too much to bear along the building of a second end. I yank his neck upward, to my mouth, stuck open in its euphoria, my hips writhing and pulse screaming; he tugs at my earlobe with teeth, bites at my neck so hard it will bruise, by gods it _better bruise_ , his fingers so quick that I really do spark like flint to a fucking rock; a man-made fire; a blistering, uncontained flame. And when I come, _again_ , be has the audacity to pull his fingers quite slowly through the viscous mess, bending down over my abdomen to taste, tongue culling gently.

I am hyperventilating above. Spent and aching and used so deliciously. He is kissing back up my body too slow, lazy up my stomach, over flushing breasts, all the way around my throat; I tear at his arms, his hair. “Oh, you jerk, you _absolute jerk,_ get up here.”

He laughs into my stubborn kiss. I am all quaking thighs and wet cunt and affection so large it boils over. I push him up off of me just so I can climb over him and collapse, heavy, on his chest. I prop myself on his shoulders and receive a stare of absolute devotion. I brush all his hair back from his forehead. “The hell was that?”

“What, you didn’t like it?” His hands are edging my thighs, softly. My lungs battle for slower breath. I can’t take my eyes off him and he’s no good, he’s ruined me. He jostles on elbows to get closer to my face and kisses my chin. “I had a lovely time, myself.”

“Gods, you insufferable, beautiful—” he cuts me off with his lips and moans straight into my mouth, lethargic-tongued. “I’m not going to be able to walk,” I complain and he just laughs, bashfully; it vibrates along my face.We kiss until I can’t breathe for it, and I have to inhale, deeply, and find him staring, still, with unabated want, and I have to say, “Merlin, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” but he’s grinning, lips swollen and pink. His prick twitches between us, bobbing against his stomach, far too close to the mess between my legs.

I press a hand to his chest, as if to stop him from coming at me. “Like you could do it all over again.”

“I could.” His eyes sparkle and dart over me, hungry. “Just look at you, Lils. I _could_.”

I groan and slide off of his body completely, shifting unsteadily to the edge of the bed in an effort to compose myself. Afterall—I force myself to think— it’s half-six, and there’s still school. My hair is an unwieldy mess, falling all over my face, so I twist at it impatiently, reach for a tie on my side table to secure it.

James scoots over toward me, head laid down near my thigh. I look down at him. Sigh. “Sometimes I think we’ll implode.”

Remnants of pleasure burst over me just with this gaze, just his eyes caught on mine. “Not explode?”

“No, _implode_ , rather: To collapse _in_ on ourselves.” He sits up on his elbows and looks at me funny, like he can’t quite follow my line of thinking. “Meaning sometimes...for me, at least, the sensations I feel when we’re...” those pretty hazel eyes, damn their nefarious sparkle. “What I feel when I’m with you, it’s...overwhelming. Might lead to permanent implosion.”

James swallows and I reach out to trace the movement with a finger. He appears amazed. “If that’s what you’re calling implosion, well...that happens to me every day. You look at me and I implode. I’m powerless.”

“Oh, _god_.”

“I’m serious, Evans.”

“I know—and still, oh _god_.”

“Will you come sit on my face?”

“Urgh, you _tosser_ , we have _class_ , you can’t just—” I squeal because he’s already caught me round the shoulders and pulled me down to a kiss I am unable to leave, much to my own dismay and—alternatively—utter satisfaction.

He leaves me starry-eyed and smiling. “I mean, all things considered, implosion doesn’t sound like the worst way to go.”

“No,” I agree, short on breath, watching as he sits up along a post at the end of my bed. I pointedly don’t look past his waist. Focus, instead, on his sudden and unsuccessful effort to wrangle his completely tossed hair into a lesser-tossed state. “Are you okay?” I ask. “With everything...before?”

His eyes shift to me and he gives up on the hair. He is silent a second, thinking. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever—that’s not something easily forgotten.” I nod, because I feel the same way. “But I do feel better. Thanks to you. Thank you.” He exhales. “Are you okay?”

“Okay as I can be.” I smile, lean forward, and kiss his knee. Close my eyes against it. “Thank you for being such a comfort.” I feel his hand brush over my hair, fingers splicing through. I sigh with appreciation. “It’ll be an outlandish day. I wish I could skip it and just have things back to normal.”

“We’ll get through it.”

 _We_. I kiss the knee again, then emerge, and give his leg a little push. “Okay, I’m getting ready now. Please leave. You’re naked and no good.”

Stupid arsehole just grins. “Certainly hope the two things are mutually exclusive.”

“Hope all you want, love, it’s just I know for a fact you’re just as randy for me getting _dressed_ as you are me _un_ dressing.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, wistfully, staring at me dangerously. “Right you are, Evans.”

“ _Out!_ Now!”

***

_James_

Even though Lily insisted on being okay enough to attend breakfast, and even though she had given me a hard look when I seemed trepidatious, myself, about letting her waltz right into what’s sure to be a den of whispers and anxious looks and swift glaring from Slytherins—even still, my heart still pounds ferociously as we approach the great hall.

Lily is peeved off by this. “I’m fine, James, will you wipe that look off your face? I’m not going to duel her before eight in the morning. I’m not going to duel her at all, period, actually, shouldn’t’ve have said that...oh, really, you can lose this mask of utter—”

“Oi, Evans!”

We swerve—me in apprehension, her in surprise—to find Sirius half down the hall sideswiping a pair of second years to barrel toward us, Peter in close—though gentler—succession. Sirius beelines for Lily, reaching out straightaway to grasp at her upper arms, his face a swirl of unease and admiration. He stares at her a moment, then pulls her right into his arms. She lets out a sound of quiet surprise but then returns the embrace, grappling against his nearly head-taller-than-her height.

After a second he steps back and beholds her brazenly. “Look at you. Gryffindor through and through.” He brushes a finger, briefly, over her injured cheek. The bruise has faded admirably since yesterday, now just a light swell of pinkish yellow; visible, but not garish. The cut remains in stark contrast to the bruise, a jagged little comma, brutishly—impressively—red. Near a shade darker than her hair. It lends her bright, beautiful features a quality of both vulnerability and daunting. As if to say: _I bled here._

The combined effect when she grins up at Sirius is breathtaking—and I am staggered, for a moment, just to know her.

Sirius’ own smile rings of blatant pride. “Reckon you might deck her back, given the chance?”

“Reckon I might start decking back the second we’ve graduated this place.”

“Excellent. _Excellent_.” Sirius beams wider, lets his hands fall from her shoulders. “Shall we?”

As predicted, Lily’s entrance into the hall attracts innumerable attention and endlessly troubled looks from fellow housemates. Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas descend on her immediately and carefully, keeping their voices in hushed tones so their chattering won’t be overheard.

I sit down next to Lily but let them sort their concerns and chiding, turning instead to receive a fatigued and knowing look from Remus. It lives plainly among his silvery scars, the weight of worry something he wears well, and wears often. “Everything okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.” Peter reaches over Remus to snag a flaky almond roll. “Say,” he mutters to me quietly, looking somewhere over my shoulder, “have a look at the chit.”

I wait a moment, then turn and find where Peter’s eyes are pinned. It’s Marlowe Pritchard and her company of tittering, smooth-haired birds, sitting across the room at Slytherin table. Marlowe meets my gaze bluntly, a hard gleam in her eyes, her chin chuffed upward, one thin forearm lain down nonchalantly along her wand. One of her fingers twitches near the wooden hilt, perhaps subconsciously—but I take it as a threat, a _why don’t you come over here and try me, blood traitor?_

A perverse and burning part of me is desperate to do just that; I want to make her suffer for what she did.

But if I’d learned anything from all the internal wrestling of the early morning, it’s that nothing—absolutely nothing—is worth sacrificing Lily's trust.

So I turn from Marlowe and look back at Remus and Peter. I see something in their eyes, maybe a question; _Are we doing something? Secretly? Untraceably? Is this within our rights as expert previewers of such secret, untraceable reprisals?_ I cut my head to the side just slightly, an almost invisible sign. They both nod in return, something understood; if not still touched in disappointment.

Even for them—arguably the two out of four least known for impetuous behavior—the instinct leans toward the teaching of a lesson. I can read this in either of them as easily as I feel it choking my own chest. The dip in Remus’ brow, caught between his eyes, meaning his nerves are still in place, perhaps about Lily, or Slytherins, or some greater conflict, the larger system of which this is all a smaller symptom—a system just as unkind to his own othering conditions, if not more so. In Peter’s eyes there’s a great dulling to his normal, charitable brightness. I feel their same discouragement. Waiting, biding time—it will be excruciating. I sense it in Sirius too, much more physically. His leg catches up and down beside me, his hands engaged in a rather friendly tiff with a hard-boiled egg. It seems too mundane a task for such a heavy morning. I watch the cords of his neck tense and un-tense. He senses my eyes on him and offers a half-smile. “Almost the 20th.”

I’ve nearly forgotten about the cagey parchment, the suggestion—or projection—of a clandestine meeting with the already highly speculative Order. I find in this moment that I’ve much less confidence in the prospect of it all being true. For all my faith, I find, now, it might be better to depend on the solid things, rather than the flimsy, than the wishing and hoping. Stars be damned. Even stars burn out, eventually.

“Sure. Gotta get through Potions preliminaries, somehow, first.” Glorious in his timing, as usual, Slughorn had got the idea into his head that near end of January is a smashing time to begin, for all intents and purposes, giving us a mock-N.E.W.T every two weeks—the first of which is to take place this afternoon.

“Yeah, _you_ wankers do,” Sirius affirms. “I’m going to spend that lovely reprieve beating the shit out of my idiot brother.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Remus responds immediately in a clipped and definitive tone, slashing a bit of jam over toast.

“I mean, I might—”

“You won’t.”

The stare Remus locks him in is rather un-Remus-like. It’s difficult and unbreakable and a far cry from friendly. It’s a hard line drawn.

Peter raises his eyebrows at me. I return the look briefly, then busy myself with breakfast. When Sirius finally responds it’s a clipped, muttered, “Fine.”

I try to swallow down a smile. I want to say something like, _Merlin, would’ve asked the two of you to take up years ago if I’d known Remus could get you to stand down an irrational idea with_ that _tone._

But I don’t.

Instead, I tune my ear into the conversation next door. Marlene is saying something in a soft voice that’s making Dorcas laugh, though I can tell she is tempering it for Lily’s sake. Mary is next to Lily, holding her hand and looking at her closely, perhaps trying to see if she’s really alright, or if she’s putting on a brave face, or if it’s some complicated combination of the two, something she’ll need to pull her aside and figure out privately, later. I’ve an inkling it’s the latter.

Mary catches my eye and mouths _thank you_. I swallow unevenly and nod in affirmation.

“—common knowledge that she’s shagged half of them herself, and _no_ , indeed, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing for any girl to do, just _this_ particular girl, who is being immensely hypercritical slinging around really foul words about a grown _woman_ expressing her sexuality in an entirely healthy sort of way—”

It seems, now, the conversation is mostly a bit of a spar between Dorcas and Marlene, Lily quite honed in on the omelet in front of her. I notice, suddenly, the absence of Ingrid. I glance down the table in each direction and find her sitting with her younger sister Lita, a third year. Ingrid looks peeved. I watch as she looks over in our direction, then quickly away, like she doesn’t want to be caught staring. Marlene, for her part, doesn’t look that way at all.

On the way to Charms, Lily walks ahead with Mary, huddled in a whispered chat. Dorcas falls in next to me and I take the opportunity to apologize for my lack of composure the previous day. She waves it away. “Appreciate the gesture, Potter, but it’s good as unnecessary. She seems _wildly_ calm today, given what happened. I mean, you should’ve seen her post-rowing with Snape, even just last year. Fucking travesty. She would be in a rotten mood for _days_. Sometimes a whole week. Usually took something stupid to break her out of it, I mean—” she laughs, suddenly. “Usually it was just another row, with Owen. Fuckssake. Don’t often take a second to realize just how outrageously the tables have turned. I mean, what, two years ago, _you_ were a pointed aggressor of her stress, I mean, a _frequent_ aggravation. And now, well,” she shrugs. We’re at the threshold of the Charms room, pausing to watch as our classmates filter inside. “You seem to smooth it over brilliantly. Really. In record time, too. So either you’re an exceptional lay, or she’s rather painfully in love with you.”

I nearly break my neck looking over to Dorcas, a flicker of amusement licking her clear blue eyes. She’s pulled her hair back from her forehead with a maroon headband, and it makes her seem more approachable than usual. “Okay,” she cedes, parsing something new from my look. “Maybe it’s both. I dunno. Regardless.” She shrugs again and smiles. “Keep it up, cap.”

I watch, oddly paralyzed, as Dorcas steps into the room and makes her way to sit down next to Lily, who smiles in greeting and says something that makes them both laugh. Dorcas responds and then Lily’s brow creases, slightly, and she turns to look back at me, finding whatever floored look Dorcas has left on my face.

***

_Lily_

I feel a bit lightheaded as I descend the spiraled stone staircase down from the Headmaster’s office. It’s a combination of reliving the memory of Marlowe Pritchard cursing me out in the middle of the hallway, having to do so in a silver swirl as a third-party observer, and having to do so while standing next to Professor Dumbledore—who is, perhaps, the most eccentric, peculiar adult I’ve yet encountered in a castle crowded with nothing but eccentric, peculiar adults.

He had offered, very kindly, to go into the basin of ghostly fog on his own. “I realize this particular memory may be rather unpleasant for you to relive, Miss Evans. It’s perfectly alright if you wish to refrain.” After a moment of thought, I declined his offer. I didn’t exactly want to relive it, but I also wanted to take ownership of my own rash actions, and, in turn, show strength in the face of such unpleasant adversity.

Watching the fight had been brutal, as I’d known it would be. For his part, Dumbledore had clutched his hands in front of shimmery, brass-colored robes and watched with a keen eye and calm demeanor as Marlowe spurred her vile language. I winced hearing my own immature retaliation, and almost had to look away—but I resisted and as the brief duel ensued, I found myself surprised, for a moment, at my own restraint. It would have been unbelievably easy to lash my own hexes at Marlowe. To be sure, this would’ve shut her up more effectively. But watching from the blurry shadow of hindsight, I saw myself standing ground in a way I hadn’t felt in the moment: Eyes fiery and unwavering, knuckles gone bloodless with their fierce grip on my wand, face barely flinching at all when Marlowe’s fist came down, violent. Seeing that as an outsider, looking in, was like standing still while someone reached clear down my throat and yanked all the oxygen from my lungs. As the professor and I emerged from the stone shallows, my throat had gone dry with the watching.

Professor Dumbledore had then assured me firmly that Marlowe would be dealt a swift and appropriate punishment for her transgression. He’d looked at me quite a long time after that; appraising me for what, I couldn’t tell. It was slightly uncomfortable being pinned under the unwavering weight of his stare, icy blue eyes crinkling around the edges with thoughtfulness and such strange precision; I was convinced, in that moment, that he could see right through me. “I assume you’ll concentrate quite hard on keeping a level head during all future interactions with Miss Pritchard?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Suffice it to say I am impressed with you. I hope also, Miss Evans, that you are impressed with yourself.”

“Professor?”

“Yesterday, you made the correct and difficult decision. Even provoked, you issued no harm. I suspect many in your position would not have been so kind in the face of such deliberately unkind treatment.” His eyes had softened then, the corners crinkling with age-lines. “I would particularly urge you not to think of your defensive reaction as weakness. Having found my own self in situations of such brittle animosity, I can assure you that sometimes relying most heavily on protecting one’s self is more valuable than offending one’s enemy. You’d do quite well to keep that spirit of moxie in all future confrontation—and I must say I am quite proud to find it from a Head of House. Well done.”

“Thank you, professor.”

I had turned to leave then, a nervous, blustering speed to my pulse, and just as I’d crossed the room to descend the stairs the Headmaster had called out after me, “I trust you’ll bring along those with a similar fortitude, when the time comes, Miss Evans?”

I had turned and found something sparkling in the recesses of his eyes, a blue so deep and paralyzing that I was nearly winded in their fathoms. The look of knowing was so clear and poignant that I knew with certainty, as I had predicted before, that my body was transparent, and he could see straight to the heart of me. I tried to quit my arms from trembling as I nodded, vehemently, and said, “Of course, professor.” 

This is the strange and shaky body with which I descend the spiraling stairs, half expecting to find James out waiting next to the large and ugly gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s tower. It’s not James I find—rather, Sirius. He’s posted against a wall in a casual lean, wand almost absentmindedly igniting with tiny showers of multicolored sparks.

I find the sight of Sirius doing something so harmless and childlike does remarkable things to my fraught nerves. A smile seizes my mouth before I’ve any chance at all to resist. “My, James, you’ve really changed your hair since I saw you not two hours ago.”

Sirius’ eyes alight on me and he breaks into a crooked grin, hand flying up protectively to his sloppily knotted strands. “Potter sodding _wishes_ his hair looked like this.”

“He wouldn’t carry it like you,” I laugh as we take off down the hall. “Suits you well.”

“Careful, Head Girl, the second he finds out you’re hitting on me when he’s not around I’m actual toast.”

“Stuff and nonsense. I can take him.” I say, and we exchange a look of mutual amusement. “So you’re my Marauder-issued protection detail for the afternoon?”

“Not at all.” Sirius stuffs his hands in his pockets and raises his eyebrows at me. “I rather think I’d hide behind you, actually, if we were attacked just now.”

This draws from me a laugh so bright that I’m taken by surprise. “Okay, I hear you loud and clear, Black. In the line of fire, you’re letting me get hit first.”

He shakes his head and shrugs, smiling. “Just trust your instincts better than my own, is all.” His expression changes now to something like apprehension, and it looks like he’s leaning forward a bit on his toes. “So how’d it go up there with Al? Everything...okay?”

I exhale. “Yeah. No better evidence than a memory, I suppose. Marlowe will—I mean, she’ll be in detention till the end of the year probably.”

Sirius is quiet at this. I imagine he may be biting his tongue with James’ same concerns, thinking Marlowe deserves expulsion. I’m grateful he doesn’t bring it up. I’m not sure I could go through that argument again, especially with someone holding equally volatile—if not more justified—opinions on Slytherin house.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Evans,” he says, finally, voice quiet and unwavering. “You’re worth more than the whole miserable lot of them.”

When I look over, I find his eyes flooded with sincerity—and something else, beyond that, a striking and unpretentious empathy. It purges all air from the hall. I see here a wallowing, unspoken depth; he has painful tucked-away memories of his own, having been subjected to treatment equally as horrifying as Marlowe’s—except it comes from his own family, and for opposite reasons. I swallow against the rush of this realization. “Thank you.”

I sense something else nagging at him. He pulls at his sweater collar, like he needs more room to breathe.

“You’re not one of them, you know.” He looks over at me. “You choose a different path. I’m hard pressed to think that was easy for you, or that it won’t be difficult, still, but...you’re _consciously_ doing the right thing. That’s brilliant, given your circumstances. And I hope you realize how much _you_ are worth, Sirius.”

In his pulsating throat, a catch—a reflex to brush this off, or refute my point, reject sympathy or care, to write himself off as a black sheep, a wild card, a childish, unthinking rebel. This impulse is borne deep from him. Something he clings to, in humiliation, or grief, perhaps, over a family he is actively rejected by—over a family from whom he still craves love, support, and acceptance, deep in the very center of himself. I see it fluttering over his edges, a wordless struggle. I reach out for his arm and give it a quick squeeze. I hope this is enough.

It’s something, at least. “Crickey, woman,” he laughs to dispel his own discomfort, voice a notch rougher than before. He reaches a hand up to scratch at his neck. “Quit gazing into my soul.”

“Can’t help it. I’m O-level in soul-gazing.” I smile warmly, then humor him by changing the subject. “Are you going to the tower, just now?”

“Er, yeah,” Sirius says as he shakes the fog of self-consciousness from his eyes. “Head knob—sorry, _boy_ , if you must—was disciplining a truly aggrieved set of third years when I left.” His face really lights up, now. “I might add that it was for using dung bombs in a spectacularly inventive way that would’ve had our third-year minds bloody spinning on end, so I fail to see the—” he looks over at me, sees my rolling eyes and hard-set jaw, and laughs. “Alright, fine. Not my jurisdiction, I get it.”

I’m hardly as bothered by it as I seem. A passing group of upperclassman break into a tittering squall as they catch sight of my face and the fading injury. “I’ll come with,” I decide. “I’ve some mates that are melodramatically want for quality time.”

“They’re peeved at you, truly?”

“Well,” I consider the question. “Sort of. Not really. Some of it’s truly out of my hands, what with courses and Head’s work, but I know Marlene is fuming about time spent...otherwise, regardless of other, more justifiable time-consuming activities.”

“Will be immediately telling James you don’t consider him a ‘justifiable time-consuming activity.’” Sirius yelps in protest as my elbow comes into rough contact with his side. “Alright, alright, fine, I won’t. But honest—McKinnon’s one to talk, really, half the time she’s got her tongue down Laswell’s throat.” I choke a bit on my own laugh, here; Sirius notices and immediately cajoles me with a smile and shake of his head. “Sorry. Also not my jurisdiction.”

“Merlin, but I don’t mind it, unfortunately. You’re spot-on with that one.” I respond, returning his crinkly smile. We turn the corner on Gryffindor tower and shuffle through the portrait hole along a cluster already on their way in. The common room’s half-packed, most of the cozy nooks of couches and chairs saturated with chattering groups killing time till dinner or final classes. I spot Dorcas, Marlene, and Mary in one such gathering, and I wave and approach, Sirius in tow. Marlene appears put off by something, hardly looking up as we approach. Dorcas offers me a sympathetic smile. “Okay, Lils?”

“Yeah, doing well.” She seems satisfied with this response for the moment, though I know she’ll save in-depth questions for later when we’re not in a so public a place. “Any thoughts on Potions? I’m itching to revise after this morning.”

“ _Ugh_ , of course you are,” Mary rolls her eyes. “Never mind we were right clobbered by one mock, now we’ve got to go right on and _revise_ for the next.”

“Fair point, honest, but I’m actually game to review,” Dorcas admits. “Can we do it in the library? Awful loud in here.”

Marlene scoffs and tears up from her chair, suddenly, barging from the room in irritation and disappearing up the stairs to the girl’s dorms.

“What’s her deal?” Sirius asks, eyes following Marlene.

“Tiff with the missus, we think,” Mary says vaguely. There’s something odd at the corners of her expression. I catch her eyes and she looks away, shaking away the expression as soon as I see it. _Later_. “Anyway, I suppose I’m in for Potions, too.”

“Well then, ladies, I’ve a reputation as a loaf to maintain, myself,” Sirius swivels his head between us, saving an ostentatious wink just for me. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I wave him off as he leaves us to it. Dorcas follows his retreat with an almost wistful expression. “Real shame he’s not dating so much, this year. Wouldn’t mind a go at that lithe figure.”

“Oh, Dor, _please_ , haven’t you already got a Quidditch player?” Mary laughs as she shoves her bag up onto her shoulder.

Dorcas runs a restless hand through her cropped hair. “I mean, Quidditch stamina is Quidditch stamina, no? Evans, back me up.”

“I’ve no formal comment on the matter,” I say as they stand up so we can head—though here’s my own Quidditch player, in fact, bounding down the dormitory stairs, apprehension stitched across his features.

Dorcas grumbles, “No formal comment but you’ve sure got that formal _stare_ , don’t you, Merlins _sake_.”

“Hey!” James tries to keep the tone light, I can tell. “Dorcas, Mary.” He nods at my friends, then fixes his eyes on mine, an anxious shimmering.

“Any formal comment on your stamina?” Dorcas assaults immediately, her face a cross of exasperation. “Phenomenal, right? Fuck.”

Mary tugs at Dorcas’ arm, laughing. “We’ll meet you, Lils? I’m divining from Potter’s windswept eyes that he’s going to pass on if he doesn’t hold your hand in private.” She’s off then, Dorcas in tow, crinkling her nose back at us amusedly.

I turn to these windswept eyes and smile foolishly, offering a hand for holding. “I do _not_ want you to pass on. Not before I’ve beaten all your N.E.W.T scores.”

We duck out of the common room and he rushes me down the hall and into what I soon find to be a secret passage that’s hiding—perhaps obviously, to a Marauder’s hungry eye—behind a 16th century tapestry illustrating a ring of blue faeries mourning the death of a unicorn. Inside, it’s strangely warm for such a dark, narrow aisle, perhaps thanks to the ancient sconced flames studding the upper walls. In the middle of the passage, James gathers up my face in his hands. “Alright?”

I nod, pull him in for a quick kiss amid such medieval ambiance. “You didn’t need to send Sirius, you know. I would’ve been okay.”

He looks surprised. “I didn’t send him, actually,” he reaches to tuck a wayward hair behind my ear. “I mentioned I was hands-full with inappropriate use of dung bombs in the dormitories, and he just went to meet you, on his own.”

This warms me to Sirius immensely—even beyond our earlier interaction. “He's alright, that one, isn't he? Think I'll leave you for him.”

James laughs and the warm sound transforms the dimly lit passage into someplace cozy. “Suppose you’ll have to get past Moony, then, and I’ve got scars from that bloke that might warn you off such a pursuit.”

I pull at his collar for another kiss, something searching and slow, something that coaxes a bit of a groan from him. “Wait,” he says, tearing his mouth away. “You’re distracting me, I want—tell me about your meeting. And then tell me why Dorcas asked about my stamina.”

I have a burgeoning laugh of my own now, pulling him close for one last kiss before I’m inclined to do either.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the little hiatus! apologies, also, for the lack of smut :( had to put a little plot in !!! I promise a Very Smutty chapter 15 :)
> 
> *immense* gratitude to betas Senem & Katie for digging this chapter up out of the hole in which it was buried—thank you thank you thank you !!!

14

And here everyone knows you’re the way to my heart

—Phoebe Bridgers, "Copycat Killer"

***

_James_

“—oldest among us, which counts for something, if not _every_ thing—”

“—for _nothing_ , you prat, I’m nearly eighteen myself! Besides, I’m—”

“—gods, don’t you _dare_ say you’re ‘the leader of the pack’ one more fucking time, Prongs, you saggy, piece of—”

“—going by this dumb arse logic, I’m second oldest, and undoubtedly act as though I am _the_ oldest, in comparison to—”

“—know I really loathe to pull rank, but it’s just that it’s sort of the truth if you—”

“—do we say to sending in the real dark horse of the group, the sort of late bloomer who’s _really_ recently got his act together, like, _spell_ wise, and can actually turn himself into a small and unpretentious creature that’s aces at sneaking—”

"For Merlin’s sake _enough!_ ” Lily scream-whispers, all four preoccupied Marauders-heads whipping toward her. “I am going to murder you all individually if you don’t cut. It. _Out_.”

“Careful, Evans,” Sirius mutters. “Potter’s likely aroused by that.”

“I am,” I whisper shamefully, and she elbows me clear in the ribs.

“Jesus, Mary, _and_ Joseph,” she grits through clenched teeth. “Obviously _I’m_ going in, because _I’m_ the one who knew about the room, and _I’m_ the one who Professor Dumbledore basically _invited_.”

“But, really, why don’t I just transform and sneak right in?”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do us, Pettigrew,” Sirius says. “How exactly do you expect to get any _information_ as a rat?”

Peter nods in defeat, “Alright, fair point.”

“So I’ll be needing that cloak, Pete, thanks ever so.” Lily says firmly, holding out her hand. 

“But—”

She whirls on me, eyes blazing. I know this look—and I quickly know it’s a fight already lost.

Even having arrived on the seventh floor having already decided to send in just one of us at first, the question of _who_ would go had not been previously agreed upon, and quickly became a point of overwhelming contention. Given the Marauder-gridlock into which just a minute’s conversation had devolved, I know Lily is right, that it should be her to go in—even if I can’t avoid anxiety at the thought of her going in there alone. We’ve no idea who—or what—is waiting in that enchanted room.

Could be anyone. Anything.

But as clear as night turns to day, I know exactly what sort of words Lily will throw my way should I voice my protective fears for her safety; so I swallow and duck my head in agreement. “Just—you’ll be careful?”

She hears my unease, despite any effort to disguise it, and her eyes soften. “Of course.”

“And you remember, erm, how to disarm?” Sirius wrings his hands together in a display of his own nervous energy. “If there’s anyone _bad_ in there, you ought to just—”

“I’m familiar with _expelliarmus_ , Black, yes. I’ll keep it at the ready.”

Remus dashes a brief and comforting hand to her shoulder. “You’ll do great.” And he adds, “Far less a chance of you getting killed in there than any of us,” which has Peter shooting over a bug-eyed look. “Blimey, Moons! Who said anything about anyone getting killed?”

Lily slides the cloak from Peter’s fingers gone totally slack. “No one’s getting killed,” she assures with a confident smile. “I’ll be in and out in a blink.”

My chest contracts with a dizzying amalgam of pride and fear; I try to focus on the pride, not the fear. Sirius salutes her rigidly. “If it’s something fun you’ve _got_ to come back and let us in, alright?”

“If it’s _fun_ I’m never sharing,” she responds, turning to Remus and asking, “Clear?” Once he’s spared a cursory glance at the map and nodded, Lily spins the silvery fabric around her neck and shoulders, the rest of her body promptly disappearing. She stares down at her invisible form for a second, then looks back up at us in plain amazement, and we spare appreciative laughter, remembering clearly our first times wearing the cloak; the strange sensation of finding yourself invisible even though you _felt_ yourself there. 

In the wake of this wonder, she’s a sober look for us. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Sirius, Remus, and Peter nod, and so do I. When she meets my eyes, I try to give as encouraging a smile as I’m able. The four of us watch as she pulls the hood of the cloak over her head and disappears completely. There’s only a small instance of Sirius’ foot jerking, him saying “ _Hey,_ watch it!” and Lily’s quiet, laughing, “you’re in my sodding way!” before we crane our ears to hear the soft sound of her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

***

_Lily_

When the door appears—plain and oak—I think, for the first time, how potentially idiotic it is to be wearing the cloak when whoever is inside (barring the possibility there _isn’t_ anyone inside, after all) will see the door open and close no matter what.

But I push away the tug of insecurity; I’ve come this far, and flawed precaution is better than no precaution at all.

I mutter a dampening charm so at least my footsteps and the rustling of my clothes under the cloak will be less easily heard, then take a deep breath, reach out with a cloak-stuffed hand, and open the door.

The room I emerge into looks painfully like the Gryffindor common room stripped of its Gryffindor name; bare store walls and floor, an unremarkable sofa flanked by twin armchairs; bookshelves empty of books or inkwells or any house paraphernalia. The fireplace is just an empty hollow carved into the wall.

The air in the room is very cold. I reach behind me to close the door as gently as I can manage, hoping the dampening charm extends past my body. I stand deathly still just inside the doorway, goosebumps erupting along my skin. There’s a strange sensation that the ground under my feet—familiar and foreign all at once—is tilted, slightly, to one side, as though the room was built on a slant.

I allow myself a shuddering exhale and grip my wand so tightly underneath the cloak that my knuckles must go ghostly with the effort. For a moment, I just listen. All I can hear is the rattle of my breath and the muted pound of my pulse, battering on at a petrified clip.

And then, from somewhere in the far corner, near the fireplace, comes a shuffling.

“Well, are you going to reveal yourself, or shall I?” 

It’s a wonder my heart doesn’t explode in terror.

I realize—far in the back of my mind—that for all the buildup and guessing that led me here, I hadn’t considered seriously enough that someone else would really be in here, waiting. Never mind that we had all _hoped_ it was true; the reality is painfully different than the hypothetical.

I say absolutely nothing in response.

There’s a stifled chuckle from the same corner. “Right on, don’t blame you for caution.” The voice is low and smooth, like a splash of dark liquor. “In fact, I applaud your tenacity. Despite the fact I’ve now put a locking spell on that door, and you’re not getting out of here till I let you out.”

_Oh, fucking fuck._

For a millisecond, I berate myself for not letting one of the stupid, brave, bickering Marauders take this foolish mission underhand.

Then I remember who I am, and what _I_ , too, am capable of, and force myself to swallow some measure of the fear. I wait, stock still, for what might happen next.

What happens next is the faint shuffling in the corner becomes footsteps, and a figure emerges from the dim shadows beside the fireless nook.

It’s a woman, slim and angular, with a crown of short jet-black hair. She’s dressed in tight black pants and fiercely laced boots and a black leather jacket, laid bare at her collarbone to reveal a striking tattoo at her neck. Even from so far, I feel as though her eyes—sharp and caustically blue—can see right through my shield of invisibility; and then, still, right on through me, right to the raw skin of my soul.

The woman pauses at the edge of a sofa, not six feet from where I stand. There is something in her stance that speaks both of relaxation and vigilance, as though she is equally equipped to brew a cuppa as she is to throw herself into a violent duel. I find myself envious of how comfortably she wears each attitude.

“Would it make you feel better that I already know who you are?”

I know I shouldn’t be so afraid. If this woman is associated with the Order of the Phoenix, then she is, in fact, on my side. But what _side_ is it that I’m on, really? I’m nothing, when it comes down to it. A student, sure, a half-decent witch, a minor authority among peers. But in the greater scheme? In the nameless war? The convoluted, invisible struggle of arms? Of light and dark? I’m merely hopeful I might help. 

A teenager with a wand.

I wish, in a tide of self-consciousness, that one of the boys had talked me into laying down my pride and stepping aside; I wish Sirius had insisted on his coming in, instead, by rattling off some casual and upsetting riff about being doomed no matter what given his premature dismissal from The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; or that Peter had insisted on transforming so he could sneak in completely unnoticed and just eavesdrop; or that Remus had insisted he had more than enough experience stepping into life-threatening circumstances blindly, what was one more?; or that James had insisted it was he who would go in my stead, despite him knowing I would think he was being stupidly masculine, or stupidly sexist, or stupidly protective, that he couldn’t stand the idea of me going in alone.

But then I remember that I’ve spent enough of my life questioning the claims of those who would see me beaten down, cast aside as weak. What kind of weakness would it betray if I let doubt get the best of me now?

So I swallow the insecurity back once more; harder this time, and for real. _You didn’t come in here to be a fucking coward, Lily Evans. And so I won’t let you be one, after all._

The cloak slides off me like liquid. I watch as the woman’s eyebrows quirk, slightly; and then, she smiles. A masked, silted smile. But, still, a smile. “Crikey, really didn’t expect an invisibility cloak.”

I’ve barely a chance to inhale before the woman is striding swiftly toward me, reaching down to her side and pulling something from her jacket pocket—

—and then she’s got her wand pressed firmly to the place where my collarbone meets my throat. The air rushes from my lungs. Up close, her eyes are the color of the black lake, frozen over.

Paralyzing.

“State your full name.”

A sphere of violet light springs vividly from the tip of the woman’s wand and hovers beneath my chin. I feel my eyes go wide, heartbeat stuttering madly, but somehow still manage to keep my voice steady.

“Lily Evans.”

The light intensifies, and then the orb disperses into violet mist, settling down into my skin and disappears completely. I look up and find the woman’s face screwed into a satisfied expression. She removes her wand and steps back. “Smashing.”

I feel as though I’ve been placed outside of my body without permission, and have just now returned to my corporeal form, mind fuzzed through with bewilderment. “I’m sorry, who—”

“Annie Glidden-Howell,” she announces boldly, thrusting out a hand.

I stare at the hand like it’s a foreign object. I don’t take it. “I’m not sure...” I clear my throat, will my voice to sound stronger. “I’m not sure I trust you. You did just—I’m not sure what that was, but it felt...invasive.”

The woman—Annie—appraises me for a moment, then retracts her hand and crosses her arms in a tight line over her chest. Her thin lips quirk into an amused half-smile. “Fair enough. Good reflex, in any case, not trusting a total stranger who’s just pointed her wand at you.”

My own wand, I realize, is still clutched tightly in my fingers. I lower my hand down to my side and roll my shoulders backward, attempting coolness.

“Just a bit of a twist on a Veritas charm. The spell, I mean,” Annie clarifies. _Veritas_...I wrack my brain and alight on an image of sixth-year Charms, learning more nuanced human-contact spells like Veritas: The complicated cousin of Revelio, which is meant only to reveal physical things. Veritas, if I remember correctly, examines a being’s core truth—the soul, as it were—to prove it belongs to the physical being it inhabits. What Revelio accomplishes for objects, Veritas does for souls. 

“Meant only to make sure you’re who you say you are,” the witch continues, mouth twitching as though she can see my mind whirling wildly inside of my skull. “And you are.” She shrugs. “Had to be certain. Can’t have any little snob Polyjuicing their way in here, you see.”

This unfurls a whole other chasm of confusion in me, but I don’t dare say as much. “Pardon me, but would you care to explain the reason that I’m here?”

“Course,” Annie grins, a wide and open thing. She spins on her heel and bends herself onto the arm of the sofa. “Have a seat. I would offer you something to drink, but there’s nothing in here. Think the room knew it wouldn’t be needed long.”

I swallow back my lingering uneasiness and walk toward the armchair, sitting down. Annie regards me head-on. I see now how young she is; couldn’t be over thirty. I can see now, too, the sharp tattoo writhing against her neck: A bee, buzzing a loping line from one side of her throat to the other.

“Sorry about all the—precautions, and such,” she says, gesturing aimlessly. “Really, I am. I know it’s wicked odd. But—you’ll understand, I think, the value of discretion, here.”

“How did you know I would come? Why did you _want_ me to come?” I burst out with the questions before I can help myself.

Annie nods curtly, seemingly unfazed by my eruption. “Two fair questions. Well. I didn’t know, explicitly, that you would come. Albus—sorry, erm, Professor Dumbledore and I did what we could to _urge_ you in this direction, but certainly we knew there was a fair chance the message wouldn’t get to you.”

I chew at my bottom lip. “So that note was—?”

“Charmed for you to find.” She thinks a second. “Or—well, someone close to you, who would surely pass it on.”

So that’s why Peter found the half-par riddle. “And what if—”

“Someone else found it? They’d just see blank parchment.”

“Oh.”

“Not _extremely_ high-level magic, mind you,” she says, and I think maybe I see a faint sparkle in her eyes. “But effective. Luckily, you were already privy to this lovely enchantment,” she gestures slightly to the room around us. “So the rest was just a matter of trust.”

The thrum of uncertainty is melting away, just a bit, but a part of me still wants to demand, _Why the theatrics? Why didn’t Professor Dumbledore just address me directly, when I was in his office?_ But no matter how little I know about the Headmaster—and how far, far, less I know about this Annie—I know enough about myself to put in a little blind faith of my own.

“And we wanted you here,” Annie goes on. “Because you held your own against that Pritchard basket case.”

A flash of uncertainty down my neck. “I mean, I didn’t even—”

“You held your own,” Annie repeats, firmly, eyes steady on mine. “There’s no _winning_ here, Evans, just like there was no winning for you, there. And it’s not a matter of win or lose, really, it’s a matter of—of fighting for some kind of equilibrium.” She’s silent a second, running a finger along her jacket zipper. “Dumbledore sees that spirit in you. And you seem keen on being recruited.”

The fear goes nearly right out of me—because as far as I know, I _am_ keen on being recruited. “Pardon,” I say again, evenly, not wanting to appear blindly eager. “But why isn’t Professor Dumbledore here, now?”

“He thought it might be good to let me, er, embark on a connection with you.” This is the first moment I feel something like insecurity slip into Annie’s demeanor. One of her intimidating black boots scuffs against the floor. “It’s just—it’s all very delicate. As I’m sure you’ve guessed. And I’m here to ask a lot of you—or _recommend_ a lot of you, rather.” Her unease disappears and she grins at me, winking. “You’re a bloody impressive witch, Evans. But you’re still in school, and you’re not of age. We— _I_ thought it best to do a gentle introduction. Certainly things will move rapidly should you decide to...join the cause. But it’s a choice, after all, and Al— _Dumbledore_ isn’t quick to be presumptuous. Nor am I.” She laughs, a quick and jarring sound, like the clang of an echoing bell. “Consider me your resistance ambassador. Alice was desperate to come on for it, really, but she’s—well, she’s elsewhere. And next to her and Frank, I’m the most recent graduate, Merlin fucking forbid. So—anyway. That’s why you’re stuck with the likes of me.”

My mind whirls through all this new information, and sticks, stubbornly, to the names she’s just let out. “Sorry, could you mean Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d know them, I forgot! They were here, what, two years ago? Head Girl and Boy?”

I nod. Alice had always been exceptionally kind to me, and though I spent no large amount of time with Frank, he had always seemed a smart, steady bloke, especially as Head Boy. “So they’re—er, involved? In the...?” I realize with a jolt that the name has gone unsaid, and I feel silly for a second, thinking maybe I’ve misinterpreted everything up until this point.

Annie’s eyes flash and she picks up my dropped breath like it’s nothing. “The Order, yeah. Hope you’re not holding out for me to hire you on for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, now.”

I find a real smile stealing at my lips. I swallow and shake my head. “No, no. I—I am...interested, certainly. Is it—is there anything you can tell me? It’s just, I haven’t heard much, and I don’t know what’s real, and what’s conjecture, if I’m honest.”

“Of course, and that’s—it’s a bit by design, yeah? Can’t have the word spread in any obvious way, get into the wrong ears. I’m afraid I can’t give you any real specifics, or at least the ones that you’re keen for.” She gives me a regretful look. “It’s bloody frustrating, but it’s part of organizing in the dark. And necessary. Fuck.” Something dim moves across her face; a shadow. “We’re shit small at the moment, that’s one thing I _can_ say. But the minds are strong, even few. And the cause—well, I don’t have to tell you.” Her voice seems to soften at the edges. “It’s right madness to think about something as abstract as—as _absurd_ as—this conflict, I know. I know how easy it is to think of life here as to think of life here as just these castle walls.” She shoots a rueful smile. “I remember well.”

“You went to Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. You’d’ve been...oh, I dunno, a second year when I left? I was Hufflepuff.” Her shoulders roll back with pride. “Real mouthy Hufflepuff, though, if you’re surprised to hear it.”

I shake my head, offering an honest smile. “I’ve no...undeserved opinions about any house.”

“Course you don’t,” she says, eyes glittering. “Anyhow. Life out there might seem distant—or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m telling you shit you already know. Regardless, one thing I want to make very clear is that you _do_ have a choice. We’ll all have a choice. But if it comes down to mobilizing in the name of something as simple as blood equality, as simple as muggles deserving to live safely...well, it’s no use to whine on about small numbers or disruption to regular life. Sometimes the system’s what’s fucked, and this system is certainly fucked. Again—I don’t have to say another word about that to you.”

There’s a thread of provocation unspooling through my arms and legs, like I’m getting ready to run. Annie stares at me for a moment, then stands up from the arm of the couch, suddenly. I stand, too, automatically, though I’m unsure if it’s the right thing to do.

“You seem intelligent,” she concludes after a moment. “On your toes. You made it here, so you’ve got a curiosity. Some kind of hunger.” To this I nod in affirmation; again, unsure if this is the right thing to do. I feel motivated, in any case, to let her know just how curious and hungry I am.

“I’ll indulge myself by saying I’m a good judge of character. Call it the Hufflepuff instinct.” Her rueful smile is back, and she shrugs. “So if I’m right about all this, Firecall me here, will you?” Annie pulls something from her jacket pocket and hands it to me. “That’s not my real address, mind you, but you’ll reach me.” I look down at the small piece of parchment she’s handed me and see the wink of silvery ink. “They’ll be a very cloak-and-dagger gathering come April, down in Hogsmeade,” Annie grins. “If you’re inclined, we’d love you there. You’ll need some preparation, help from Al—Dumbledore, or maybe me or Alice, so that can all be arranged, if you choose.”

I tuck the cardstock into the hem of my skirt. I’ve a million burning questions, a trillion things to consider. But, above it all, there’s a steady sheen of exhilaration. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’m...still not sure how you found me, but thank you.” A thought strikes me suddenly. “Wait—how did you get in here?”

Her smile brightens the icy lakes of her eyes. “We’re not all so fortunate to own such lovely cloaks, Head Girl. Some of us have to use good old-fashioned disillusionment charms.”

I watch as she points her wand at herself and melts, almost instantly, from my field of view. “Brilliant,” I murmur, impressed. I’ve never seen the charm done to an entire body, and so flawlessly.

“Gets the job done,” Annie’s voice says. “Alright, I’m off. When you decide—let me know. And remember: It’s a choice. Neither is right or wrong, and both are equally hard. But—still a choice.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll...I’ll let you know when I’ve made a decision.”

“Good on you. Try to stay out of trouble, till April, then.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and Evans?

“Yes?”

“You can tell that...troupe of lads that follow you around that they’re welcome to come along, in three months, should you want them to.” There’s a pause, and then she adds, “And you’ll exercise appropriate caution when divulging what I’ve said?”

I nod vehemently. “Yes, absolutely, yes. You can trust me.”

“Brill. Take care of yourself, now.”

I watch, body drained of amazement, as the door to this iteration of the Come and Go Room opens and then closes by an invisible hand.

***

_James_

Lily thanks me and smiles warmly as I hand her the mug. There’s a vibrancy about her, red flush visible where her lavender jumper pulls away from her throat. I hand the other mug down to Remus where he’s tucked into the foot of the couch. The remaining mugs I retrieve and deliver to Sirius and Peter, each burrowed into the couch on either side of Lily. Peter is shooting some sort of fabric-warming spell into the plush fabric, and I can tell it starts working when Sirius stretches his long legs straight off the edge, toes curling like a cat. “Dynamite, Wormy, you’re a charm,” he purrs, stockinged ankles going limp and settling in near Remus’ neck.

I slump into the lone armchair with my own mug, eyes catching on the purple remains of day beyond the tall eastern window. It’s still snowing; fluffy droves of it fall along the glass at a shadowed slant.

The world seems at a standstill.

Not an hour earlier, Lily had emerged from under the cloak with her face split into a fervent grin, head swiveling among us all, laughing recklessly as she whispered, “Back to the Heads, boys?” And despite our wildly irritable impatience to hear anything of what happened, and despite inundating her with a deluge of questions as we fast-walked to the fourth floor, she insisted on reaching a secluded location before disclosing even a word on the matter.

Only once we were huddled in wait around a blazing fire did she sit herself cross-legged in the middle of the couch and paint us a vivid picture of Annie Glidden-Howell and her killer black getup, her purple-light Veritas, her clarification of the odd note plot, her carefully unspecific overview of the Order of the Phoenix; and how she told Lily it was a choice, a hard choice, but one they were leaving entirely up to her.

Peter was the one to ask her—when it was all relayed—what her first impression was; what she might decide to do, if she had to decide right then. “Well, I think it would be foolish to pass the opportunity up,” Lily returned instantly. “And I’ve a good feeling you all feel the same.”

After she was through talking, and had fielded all of Sirius’ rapid-fire questions ( _sure she wasn’t Snape in a wig?)_ and Remus’ more insightful inquiries _(how the hell did she get past the castle wards?)_ and grinned through Peter’s off-color commentary _(I’d have shit myself in your place, honest)_ , we settled, collectively, into a thoughtful silence; in the middle of which I asked—out of desperate need for something to do with my hands—if anyone else was chuffed for a tea.

“So Alice and Frank have joined up, huh?” Remus says now, putting his face into the small cloud rising out of his mug, eyes closed to the sensation.

“I’m not surprised, the longer I think about it,” Lily considers. Her legs are tucked up under her body, steam from her own mug curling up in wisps under her chin. “They were both exceedingly studious, so far as Gryffindor’s go, I suppose. But wicked sharp, too. Alice had top marks in Defense, I remember it caused an uproar of sorts in their class, with the Ravenclaws.”

“And Longbottom took very little Marauder nonsense,” I add, remembering numerous fifth year occasions in which our well-laid plans had been entirely boffed—or at least majorly impeded—by the reigning Head Boy. “But in, I dunno, a _respectable_ way. I never felt as bad catching detention from him. He was a ruddy good Chaser, too, cor did he cinch _multiple_ games for us.”

“It’s all easy for you to say, golden boy,” Sirius scoffs, head flopping backward, annoyed, a cache of his wily black hair tumbling over his cheeks. “He was _determined_ to get me positively expelled.”

Lily’s mouth takes a mischievous shape. “That couldn’t have had anything to do with your own determination to rid the Ravenclaw team of sensation from the waist down prior to the Cup game that year, could it?”

Sirius guffaws. “That was a group effort, okay? Don’t go slapping all the blame on me.”

“Don’t be modest, now, Black. You deserve any and all credit.” Remus brushes his knuckles against the side of his mug, smile turning lopsided as he catches my eye and laughs a little—and it’s a laugh I share, remembering the whole disreputable incident; one that was, indeed, almost exclusively manufactured by Sirius in some half-ditch attempt to catch a game that wasn’t ours that year by a landslide.

Peter flashes a beam of his own. “Whole mess was distinctly homoerotic, to boot.”

There’s hardly a pause for stunned silence before the lot of us dissolve into stupefied laughter, Sirius’ eyes gone wide and disbelieving as he whips them at Peter. The blonde returns his shocked gaze, incredulous, hands raised in defense. “What? It bloody well was! Positively every _one_ of them was erect—barring the females, of course, though the effect was possibly similar, just not nearly so—pardon, Lily, honest. I’m not _trying_ to be crude.” He throws an apologetic look her way, though she’s gone nearly scarlet with laughing, fingers gripped viselike at her mug. “And besides,” Peter adds insistently. “I thought—wasn’t that the prank? The uncontrolled arousal?”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t—” Sirius is spluttering, exasperatedly, and it’s a rare and wonderful sight. “I didn’t _know_ it would be a side effect when I—you know what? You lot can fuck right off.”

I shake my head, lungs torn through with amused exertion, smiling at him madly. “In retrospect, it _does_ seem like damning evidence, mate.”

“And fuck you, specifically, Potter.”

“The match had to be rescheduled, didn’t it?” Lily barrels on, delightedly, pushing at Sirius’ leg with her foot. “What with—well, obvious discomfort from the team, and then with all the hysteria and just absolute _mass_ distraction, so many innocent eyes corrupted, and all that.”

I can’t help myself. “Get a real eyeful, Evans?”

She shoots me a kindly middle finger. Remus is still laughing, rubbing his hands all over his face, palms turned against his pinked cheeks in an attempt to quell his vibrating chest. “They all had to spend the night in the Infirmary because of... _Jesus_ , the pain.”

Peter nods woefully. “Unbearable cock discomfort.”

The statement is so irrationally vulgar coming from Pete’s mouth. A fresh wave of hysteria lords over the room. Sirius shakes his head, saying, “Unbearable cock discomfort or _not_ , I didn’t deserve _expulsion_ over that, no matter what Long _arse_ said.”

“The Ravenclaws would’ve demanded you expelled, certainly, had they known your involvement,” Lily apprises. “Unerringly protective of their libido, that lot.”

“Alright,” Sirius rolls his eyes. “You dated a Ravenclaw, you know what ‘libido’ means, the Order wants to recruit _you_ first and foremost, then the rest of us as a literal afterthought, we _get it_ , Evans.”

“Oh, sod off,” Lily rolls her eyes. “You were invited, isn’t that what matters? Can you blame the Headmaster for trusting the one among us with the least amount of detentions served?”

It doesn’t pass out of my notice how plainly she ignores the _Ravenclaw libido_ dig. “So you’re not denying having served detention, at some point, then?”

“You piss off, too, Potter. You know for a _fact_ that was no thanks to you arseholes.”

I grin, keeping it close-lipped. Her misinterpreted participation in a convoluted flooded-second-floor-girl’s-loo scenario had resulted in three hours spent in the company of the Marauders, re-stitching protective gloves torn apart by Doxies and Crups in fifth-year Care of Magical Creatures. What I can only assume was a waking nightmare for her I remember as endlessly delightful for the rest of us, me most of all.

“But really—” she continues, something catching at her tone. She pulls her wand from under a leg and casts a tiny puff of re-warming spell into her tea. “You’ll all come? In April?”

“Unquestionably,” Remus says.

“Yeah,” Sirius nods. “No way in hell we’re letting you get all the glory,”

Peter is rubbing a hand over his jaw, appearing conflicted. “I agree, but I have to say...” he tugs at the collar of his green turtle-necked jumper. “I’m right collywobbles thinking about what it all means.”

An echo of his nerves fizzles in my own stomach. “I do, too, Pete, but we’ll be fine,” I assure with more confidence than I can reasonably claim. “Hardly think they’ll stake all their best hope on hapless grads, anyway. Sounds like they’ve got a good backbone. I mean, Dumbledore’s the strongest wizard of our time.”

“He’s right,” Lily agrees, eyes alighted on me. “And if they’ve got his support, who knows who else they’ve got involved? Surely for every maniac who wants the world to implode, there’s a handful of others doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

A wash of stillness overwhelms as her words settle. The reality is damning, and new. The hypothetical Order, such a fixation in our heads, is _real_ , and is recruiting; is recruiting _us_. There’s little glory in it, all said—it’s a call to action.

I raise my head and look at Remus, his hand almost thoughtlessly hooked around Sirius’ ankle; at Peter, fingers paused at his jaw, mouth gone slightly slack, staring blankly ahead into the fire; at Sirius, with his gaze fixed distantly on the back of Remus’ head; and at Lily, who is looking at me, blinking slowly, eyes gone slightly wide with the prospect of the future, maybe, or of the fight. 

I breathe in, then out. I feel—as I can’t help but feel—a stab of certain faith. 

***

Later that night I lie in bed and watch the heavy shadow of snow on my bedroom window. Something about winter darkness is bruise-like; so blue it is black. January is almost out, and that leaves just four months between Hogwarts and the rest.

_The rest._

The bath door opens and Lily slides under the covers, curling to my turned back. Her fingers rest at my hip, forsaking the waist of my flannel pajamas. I cover her hand in mine. Her feet are chilly and sockless.

My eyes feel lethargic, but something sparks into my mind, a question I’ve been meaning to ask. “Are Ingrid and Marlene on the outs?”

Lily exhales near my neck. She’s wearing a shirt so thin I can feel her breasts push into my back. “I think they’re growing apart.”

Just yesterday I’d seen them walking down a corridor together, heads huddled closely as if for privacy, but angled oddly outward, as though it hurt to be near.

“They’ve been together a while, since fifth year, and Marlene’s never dated anyone else. I think she may be realizing they’re not the best fit, long-term.” An unconscious—unnecessary—strain of panic unspools in my sternum. And like she can read me for such small panic, Lily smiles against my shoulder and kisses it, softly. “Quit projecting that onto us, Potter. I’m in your bed, am I not?”

I turn from the dark bruise of nighttime snow. In the near-dark, Lily is all curved lines and hair spilling more like ink than fire. “Is Marlene unhappy?”

“Yeah, a little,” she answers. “I think she’ll feel better once she’s honest with herself about why, though.” She nestles closer to my chest, her leg slipping between mine. “Why is that in your head?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe it’s that so many things have happened, lately, that have...” I focus, for a moment, on the breath moving through my lungs. “That have put things into a sharper perspective, shown me what’s worth holding onto.” She tilts her chin up and finds my eyes through the dim. I have the impulse to clarify: “I count you high among things worth holding onto.”

She presses her lips to my jaw. “Where do I rank compared to Sirius?”

“Just a smidge below.”

Now she smiles; a dusky watercolor stroke. “You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?” She kisses my mouth, tenderly, then lays her head on my chest. I brush my hands down her back, soundly, and decide to be honest. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” she whispers. “Just hold me, and we’ll sleep.”

I kiss her forehead and do just as she asks.

***

_Lily_

A smattering of seventh year N.E.W.T-level students huddle shoulder-to-shoulder in a careful semi-circle around Professor Sprout as she demonstrates the prying of individual leaves from the formidable Venomous Tentacula. My typical neutral interest in double Herbology—mainly given the Friday-afternoon timing—surged the moment we learned our task involved brewing a Wiggenweld draught, an uncomplicated healing potion relying primarily on the Tentacula’s potent leaves.

The act of _retrieving_ said leaves—as we now stand witness—seems a perilous feat of its own.

The second Professor Sprout removes one of the many-leafed limbs with a Severing charm, the disgruntled plant flings a spiky, spore-like ball in her direction. This she dispels with a hasty _incendio_ , sending the terrified huddle of us into a communal release of breath.

“You get a fiddly one, as this one here,” the stout witch implores, “you’ll want a steady second. Whichever of you’s best at reflexive casting. You’ll find cauldrons at your tables, now, and I’ve floated round instructionals. Not a difficult brew for my best and my brightest. Flasks to me by end of the period! ”

The throng of us does her bidding less-than-enthusiastically, breaking off into nervous mumbles and exclamations. I hear Rhian July mumble to another Slytherin, “she expect us not to be _impaled?_ I’m not touching that thing. Hope you’ve good bloody reflexes, Jacoby.” 

There’s a light touch along my fingers, and I find James with his head inclined to our work table. “Ready to sever?” Despite the tremor of fear roiling my stomach, I join him in our corner station. “Not at all, no. I’m not going anywhere near that thing.”

I stand well to the side, eyeing the plant in distrust. It’s positively gargantuan, each vine-appendage near four-feet long— and in the center of the mass an unsettling, eyeless head, a many-fanged mouth. 

James is standing similarly far from the thing, opposite me, hands propped abjectly on his waist. He regards me with a fear-riddled face. “You can’t make me go near that.”

“Sure I can’t make you, but I can _implore_ you to.”

“You’re mental. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, have some faith in yourself.”

“I have _faith_ in myself, it’s just I don’t fancy a young death!”

A shrill yelp sounds across the room, followed by a particularly colorful curse. “Mind the shoots and spikes, Rutger!” Professor Sprout squeals, rushing toward the screeching Hufflepuff. “Quite poisonous! Shouldn’t need to point that out—but _Rutger_! Don’t go _insulting_ the poor—”

James’ eyes go startlingly wide. I clamp my wand tighter in my fingers. “I am endlessly ready to give it what it deserves,” I assure. “You’ve just got to sever the thing and then I’ll do the rest, I swear.”

He lets out a long and whiny breath. If it weren’t for the circumstance and all the unsettlingly fear, I might be elsewise affected by the sound. “Lily,” he pleads. “I don’t want to die at the hands of a bloody Venomous Tentacula.”

“I _assure_ you you will not _die_ ,” I promise firmly. “And really, haven’t you gotten up to _more_ perilous antics, for much longer periods of time?”

His face relaxes only slightly. “I...suppose.”

“You’re my hero,” I tell him, really laying it on, “And I’ll be _so_ appreciative.”

He heaves a weary, exasperated sigh. “Yeah, yeah, Evans, alright, I’ll do it, don't hurt yourself with the flattery.” His wand gets tucked between his teeth as he shrugs off his cardigan and tosses it onto a stool near our bench. He regards the plant defiantly as he unbuttons his shirt at the wrists, folds it back, up to his elbows. Despite effort to watch this methodical action indifferently, I feel a flutter of appreciation right down the back of my neck. 

James meets my eyes and takes his wand from his mouth. “If this thing kills me, I just want to say that it was such an honor knowing you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” I grin. “Now go on and get it over with.”

He inhales deeply, and nods, once, as if to comfort himself in his own capacities. The thick green vine-arms agitate gently as he rolls his shoulder backward, exhales. Steps slightly closer to the eco-horror, forearm tense. My breath stutters in my throat as I hear his low, sharp _diffindo_ , watch the quick blue zap as it splinters the lowest-hanging vine—and hear, despite all desire not to, the foul and earnest screech of the thing when it protests loss of limb. The petrifying seed-attack comes quickly, but the fire charm is quicker on my tongue; the spore is annihilated in all of an instant, and James ducks clean under the plant as he scrambles for the disassembled vine. His desperate trajectory away from the Tentacula lands him backward, winded, on a stool, face red with exertion. I step toward him, laughing, saying, “See? Easy!”

At the station next to ours, Melly Bakopoulos has no such easy luck; her hair seems snagged quite horribly in one of the vines, and Professor Sprout is on site, disentangling the roots from the poor girl’s tresses while flicking her wand almost thoughtlessly at the plant’s startled attacks.

James shakes his head, setting the limp vine onto the table. “I did _not_ care for that.”

“I know, but _look_ , you did it and you’re done, you can just sit there and look pretty!” I set a low fire under the cauldron, retrieving the Wiggenweld instructional and surveying the ingredient list. 

James’ laugh is breathy and relieved and affecting, again, in a way I strive to ignore, as we’re quite in the middle of class; and, further, on account of me being a mature person that can keep her head on straight. “Actually,” he says ruefully, “pleasant as that sounds, I’d like to help. One of us definitely needs brewing practice, and it’s not you.”

I glance up at him as he stands from the stool and shake my head, surprised and impressed—and knowing I should be neither, at this point. “Sometimes it still astonishes me, seeing you genuinely invested in your education.”

“At this point, I’m mostly invested in not looking like a right dunce next to my top-of-class girlfriend.”

“Next time you’re trying to get me naked,” I say, handing over the instructional. “Go on and call me your ‘top-of-class girlfriend,’ again, will you?”

He laughs—and I can’t linger on it, not in class. He begins untangling the flat and furry leaves of the Tentacula from its rigid vine, cutting them down into narrow strips. I go and retrieve a potted Moly flower and vial of Screechsnap nectar from the greenhouse stock.

“Are you nervous to talk to Heather and Malby this weekend?” James asks as he chucks the remains of the vine into a detritus bin.

“A bit, yeah.”

Dern Heather and Terrence Malby have skived off patrol for two weeks now, and I called a meeting on Sunday afternoon to bring their Prefect status into question. The ditching of multiple shifts wouldn’t alone be reason for suspension, though indeed frowned-upon—it’s that the blank posts combined resulted in Ravenclaw first-year Jane Avrich being the unlucky victim of a flippant after-hours Bubblegum Hex, and subsequently contracting a brutal case of Sticky Lung because the anti-hex hadn’t been applied till hours later, when Filch stumbled upon the poor girl.

“I’m preemptively irritated. I mean, aside from thinking it’s an attack on their character as Slytherins, they’ll blame it on Jane, I imagine—say it’s her fault for being out after hours on her own.” James laughs without humor. “And on top of that, it’s real shit they insisted I be there.”

I pause in plucking white petals of Moly from its thorny black stem. “What?”

James crinkles his brow at me. “Didn’t—” and then his eyes go wide, and he turns from me instantly. “Fuck.”

“James!” I reach out to grip his arm. “What do you mean, they insisted on you being there?”

“I’m now realizing that...you missed that step in the arrangement, and I definitely shouldn’t’ve said anything.” He re-corks the Screechsnap nectar and intensifies the cauldron-fire with his wand hand.

A slow and bubbling anger flares in my cheeks. “ _James._ ”

He holds my eyes, ducks his forehead, sighs. “After you sent the note, they—they went to McGonagall and, erm, threatened to get Slughorn involved if I wasn’t in attendance as well.” He takes the stirring spell off the potion, peeking over the edge to find the correct hue, (indigo,) before adding five small strips of Tentacula leaf. “And obviously, I wanted to be there, for you, for moral support, for _support_ , I would’ve done that either way, but they—"

“Those _fucking pricks_.” The bubble inside of me doubles, triples; then bursts, into a venomous rage.

James turns to me with pleading eyes. “It’s—I thought McGonagall told you.”

“What, and you think I wouldn’t be absolutely _raging_?”

“No, no, I’d expect you to, I–I don’t know why I didn’t think about it more critically. I’m sorry.”

“I—” I close my eyes, run a hand over the back of my neck. “I’m not quarreling with _you_. I’m just frustrated with this having happened.”

“I know,” he says, gently, and his free slides under the table, rests comfortingly on my knee. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s shit.”

I allow, for one moment, the feeling of his skin on my skin to be a small relief. Then the flare returns. “Did they say why?” My jaw clenches painfully. “I mean, I know _why_ , generally, but did they even try to justify it?”

James stares at me, for a second, then gives in. “McGonagall didn’t go into any specifics, exactly, and wasn’t pleased all to tell me this, trust me, I know she dislikes them as much as you or I do, but she also is such a stickler for _doing things judiciously_ , and also probably knows that Slughorn’s involvement wouldn’t bring anything good, he wouldn’t easily cave on punishing members of his elite few—” he cuts off, spares a glance. “Er, no offense.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I don’t care.”

“Right. Anyway, no I don’t know specifics, but I do know that a meeting alone with you would mean some sort of defeat for them, and that’s probably why they wanted to involve me, as a buffer of some sort.”

“How do you mean, ‘defeat?’”

“Well, what with the two of them and their vile friends living under the ludicrous notion that you’re somehow undeserving of the same treatment as them, based on your _lineage_ , which is as drafty and inane an idea as anyone could conjure, but—lucky for them, there’s a host of wankers behind them—first and foremost, their families.”

I think of how James and Sirius may have grown up to be just like Heather and Malby—might have even been Slytherin, if it wasn’t for their character, their friendship, for James’ loving parents. I quash the painful idea that it could have turned out any other way. 

The brew breathes out a tangerine-colored cloud. “This the right shade?”

“Yeah,” James nods. “Anyway— _of course_ they find you threatening. You prove their beliefs wrong every day.” His voice has gone low, absorbed in the task of crushing up Moly petals with a small mortar and pestle; a step that the instructional bids its maker to do by hand, not wand. “You’re not what they want you to be. They’d expect someone less-than-pureblood to behave meekly, to be embarrassed, or cautious, at the very least. That’s what they’re scared of—they don’t see you behave like that. They watch you be confident, and daring, and smart, and just have to sit there while you learn circles around them.”

I watch as he culls another Moly petal into the fine white powder. “And seeing you put in this position of power based on your qualifications rather than bribery or influence, and then _excel_ —blimey, that must really get to them. Because if you can do this, what else can you do? That’s such a stitch in their pitiful vision of the world. I imagine the mere thought of being subjected to your punishment for a wrong they committed—well, that would strike such fear that of course they need to bring me in, to demoralize and insult you.”

My legs have drifted so close to his that our knees touch. His eyes flick to mine. The fine powder of the petals is almost to “half a finger’s length.” He brings a knife to cut off the tip of the stem. I put a hand on top of his fingers. “Use the flat side to crush.”

He does as I say, and the end of the root disintegrates into fine white powder. He adds a final petal to the mix, saying, “And beyond any of that, beyond their Slytherin-complex, and despising the idea of a Gryffindor telling them what to do, and being sexist, despising the idea of a capable woman telling them what to do—I think that deep down, what they hate you the most for is that despite their projected weaknesses, despite all the things they think you lack, you’re more alive than either of them could ever hope to be.”

The potion bubbles bright orange now. James shakes the powdery petals into the mix, and with a flare of smoke it bubbles to the brim, then settles. Caught in the corner of my eyes, a steady thrum, like a gathering of thunder. Being seen is a feeling like no other.

“Now...” James presses a finger to his mouth, eyes scanning the instructional. “Flobberworm—” I hand him the bottle of viscous Flobberworm Mucus. His eyes are warm on mine. “Lovely. Thanks.”

Something in the curve of his jaw from the side, in the tight knot of concentration between his brow, in the way he pushes absentmindedly at a strand of hair falling into his eyes, sets off in me such a helpless adoration. I alight in it, defenseless; and it burgeons, suddenly, beyond any day to day capacity, unhindered, swelling through my lungs and stomach and throat, through every blooded capillary; buzzing to the very tips of my fingers.

“And now,” James continues, oblivious to the flare of my wrenching emotion. “Poor Jane’s going to have permanent trouble breathing because those two arseholes couldn’t find it in them to do one simple Merlin-forsaken patrol, they just _had_ to duck out early to practice their forbidden curses, or whatever the hell they do with their free time, I mean—I mean what’s the bloody _point_ of being an authority figure in this school if you’re not going to help other students?”

“James?”

“At the very least it’s massively irresponsible to ditch your duties, but to have ditched them to _this_ end? I know they won’t, but I wish they would feel just a _fraction_ of how insensitive and careless it was for them to—”

“James.”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

It comes out like a breath, just an undercurrent, and I’m so leaned toward him that the steam rising from the brew is the only thing between us when he turns his face, looks at me, hands pausing in the work. And I don’t regret saying it, I really don’t—but I _do_ regret this reckless timing, because in the next second, his brow creases ever-so-slightly and he whispers, “In, um, Herbology?”

I laugh, I can’t help it, it's too absurd; then quickly clamp a hand over the laugh, head wobbling with the effort, and his jaw is twitching, now, at work—is he angry? Stunned? The glass greenhouse feels very confining, all of a sudden, and of course the potion starts spitting angry purple. James swears briefly, scrambles to toss in the final Tentacula leaf so the bubbles die down quick, steam abated. I stand from my stool and peek down into the cauldron. 

The potion churns turquoise. “It’s perfect.”

James isn’t looking at the potion. “Lily,” he begins, and it sounds like he’s aching.

Then the booming voice of Professor Sprout at the front of the greenhouse, calling class to a close. I reach frantically for an empty flask, whisk a measure of draught into it. James stitches our surnames onto a label and pins it to the glass, fingers brushing mine. The Wiggenweld dances like a liquified jewel.

“Really well brewed,” I murmur.

He’s got _I want to kiss you_ eyes.

Which will have to wait. We collect our things and robes and join the flurry of classmates eager to get on with their Friday evenings. James drops off our draught and Professor Sprout nods in approval. “Best and brightest,” she intones, before turning to frown at an unsettling sludge-colored potion being handed her way.

On the back to the castle, I tug his fingers through mine. But that, too, it seems, will have to wait. As we follow the flood through the tall wooden doors, I hear someone call through the chaos, “Lily! Lily!” It’s Mary, who is a picture of unease. “Lily, _gods_ , there you are, fucking hell does that class go on!”

“Mare?”

I watch her face tense, twist unnervingly. “It’s Ingrid and Marlene, they’ve—”

“—broken up?”

Mary nods miserably, and my heart drops. “I mean, for real, this time?”

She nods again. “And now Marlene’s doing that thing where she’s convinced the way to maintain sanity is to, you know, get plastered and head straight to the astronomy tower, and you’re so much better at dealing with her when she’s like this, I just don’t know what to—”

“It’s okay, it’s—I’ll come.” A choir of panic sings out in my chest. This is Marlene in a bad way, one that truly requires multiple hands on deck. But then I feel fingers tighten on mine and remember James; remember my ill-timed confession. I turn. 

“Go. It’s okay.” I’ve tossed him into the ocean, and he looks like it—but here he is, saying it’s okay, he’ll tread water. “Go.”

There are dozens of classmates filtering past us, and I’ve always been determined not to snog him quite so publically, but his small voice and the memory of how he looked after I told him I loved him is too much to bear, so I slip a quiet hand round his neck and pull his mouth to mine. His fingers slide back through my hair in clear relief. It’s a tender kiss, soft and ruminating, the kind that generally leads to something deeper, slanted, and aching; but, given the circumstance, I pull away after just a moment.

“Later?” I whisper.

He catches my fingers as they leave his neck, kisses them gently. “Later.”

“The hell was that, Evans?” Mary asks as we leave, leaning in against my side.

I exhale heavily. “I accidentally told him I was in love with him during Herbology.”

“You fucking _what_?”

***

_James_

The first time I flew, I fell in love.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1966. I was six, and my cousins were having a pickup scrimmage in our grandparent’s backyard. My cousin Margaret, ten years my senior, who played Chaser for the Gryffindor team, and who I thought was unbearably cool, finally gave in to my incessant whining to be included by shoving a broom my way and saying, “Good luck, Jamie.”

Somewhere in the jumble of countless false starts and skinning both knees and the perilously wounded pride and the falling off and getting right back on, I took flight.

Was thrown, head-first, into love.

Details would come back to me in retrospect. Mum shrieking in horror as I took off, Dad giving a not-so-subtle thumbs-up, cousin Margaret beaming somewhere in the periphery, the heat of the sun and the cluster of clouds and the paralyzing fear that if I let go for just a second I would fall to the ground and break my entire body.

In the moment, all I knew was that I was in love with the solid wood under my fingers, with the slick bristled end of the broomstick; with the seize in my stomach as I left the ground and the pulse of magic sent me and my body and the broom aloft on a manufactured breeze; with the rising, the gathering speed, the leaning in, the angling away, the cut of euphoria so brutal it stung; with the scream of wind in my ears and the burn of joy in my throat and lungs; with the way my blood brightened, heart flung straight through my ribs; with the knowledge I would never be the same.

I fell in love with flying a second time, in a different way, on a night Friday in January of 1978. 

Where my Captaining tactics normally range somewhere between firm and rigorous to affable and encouraging, tonight, I’m landing somewhere entirely outlandish, a hard roll between hysteric and exalted. The temperature can’t be more than a hair from freezing, the pitch lights harsh and unforgiving, our winter uniforms small reprieve, if any, from the brutal slash of wind looking to cut any scrap of skin it can find—yet here I am, cold-bitten cheeks, looping fantastical circles around the drill runs, crying out to my team like they’re catapulting us straight to the Quidditch World Cup simply by existing here on this pitch, on this night.

“Archer, you bastard, where were these moves two days ago? The _finesse_ , just there, that’s what I am keen on _seeing_ , good lad!”

“If I wasn’t sure it was Arthur pulling Excalibur for himself, I’d think it was a _woman_ with such fire in her eyes—I lay my entire defense in your worthy hands, Bishop! Hufflepuff Beaters won’t know what the hell hit them!”

“To think a scrimmage could tear my heart right out of its cage! Woods, Meadowes, Lawrence, the _speed_ on you! The _dexterity_! Burns me from the inside-out!”

“Say, at least it’s not _snowing_ , like yesterday!”

I appear, no doubt, unhinged. I feel it. Sirius angles swiftly alongside me during runs to ask if I’ve recently participated in any sort of drug intake, hallucinogenic or otherwise. In lieu of an answer I just laugh, exhilarated, and he squints at me through the cold and the wind before rolling his eyes and flying off, muttering something unintelligible about loose ends making loose returns.

He’s right to think me mad. I am actively unraveling. I cave to the ecstasy of flight like never before; let it consume me. There is nothing like this joy; the deft manipulation of air, of the elements, to the smallest, most minute advantage of angle, the most miniscule slope. Carving a meticulous speed from an onslaught of wind; falling fearlessly forward, trusting myself. Trusting the physics of flight. My throat run raw, burning with its own exertion. There is nothing like it.

There is one thing like it.

Post-flight on the frosty ground, tired and cold and hysterical, I join the team, stuffing angry balls into their rightful cases and walking with them as one, a wind-torn, exhausted mob, teenagers determined to achieve something, if only for the momentary blaze; the obliteration of self, for just one wicked taste of victory.

We are emblematic of our generation, I think; teetering on the edge of some great terror—asking, kindly, for one last game, one last flight.

Death preceded by life.

***

Dorcas catches my cold-cramped arm somewhere in the hike from the pitch to the locker rooms. “Hear about Marls and the one with the hair?”

“Yeah.” I wince. “Is this expected? I’ve not been debriefed.”

We duck around the corner to the outer-locker room door, shuffle inside with the rest. The immediate heat in the outer lip of the small rooms, with their warm showers and metal lockers, hits like a homecoming. Dorcas tugs off her maroon flying gloves and rubs at her reddened hands. “I didn’t expect so much as predict, unfortunately,” she admits. “And this has actually happened once before, over summer, but this time feels a bit more...serious.”

“It’s rotten. I’m sorry for them.”

“Yeah. Shitty for them, sure, but also for the rest of us.”

“Save me some hot water!” I shout after Sirius, who is somehow half-naked before even entering the male side of the locker rooms.

“Unlikely!” Comes his muffled reply.

Dorcas exhales, tugging at the constraining shield of her pads. “You should know that Marls is about to be massively dependent on Lily.” Her blue eyes are dominant in her flushed face, roving me with apprehension. “She’s much better at talking her off ledges than Mary, who’s—well, not well-equipped. And certainly better than me.” She laughs. “I just get angry. Much more used to fleeting attachments, I am. What do I know of love?”

It’s like I’ve taken off into the slanted wind, again, with just the word. “I figured as much. She disappeared with Mary just after Herbology.” I discard my own gloves, shaking my hands out, sweaty and freezing at the same time. “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to usurp her, from you all. It’s—I don’t expect her to leave anyone behind, in favor of me. So if I’ve ever come off that way, I’m sorry.”

“Never thought that, myself, that’s more Marlene’s jab. Which, even then, is ridiculous considering how often she ditches us for—well, _ditched_ , now, I guess.” She cards her fingers through short black hair. “Anyway, I really ought to be thanking you, for knocking Evans back a couple notches.”

I choke, a bit, on the beginning of a laugh, which I stave off quickly with a hand across my jaw. “Couldn’t—don’t know at all what you mean.”

“Don’t be coy, Potter,” she responds with an eye-roll. “You should know better than anyone how uptight she can be.” She’s hauling off her chest-guard, now, with a satisfied _oomph._ “Marlene always thought a quick solution for that would be a bit of a lay, but even post-Owen Lils was rather keyed up, maybe even more so because of how _that_ turned out. But she’s different this year. Well, recently. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Honest.”

“Not sure how much of that is me, really, but—”

“Take the praise and run, Merlin’s sake. Trust me: It’s you.” She grins, knocking a fist into my shoulder. “Also, have you got a bit mental? What the hell was that practice?”

My own smile is hard to suppress. “Bad?”

“Not bad, no, you—something’s definitely going on with you, psychologically.”

“You don’t know half of it.”

“I’m leaving before you explain even a _quarter_ of it. Later, captain.” She mock-salutes, then nicks along to the female side of the lockers.

My own shower consists of closing my eyes and letting the hot water scorch over me in droves. I stand like this for several minutes. Think about every rotating planet. Think about gilded spilling light. Think about a well-brewed potion. Think about foolish schoolboy quandaries, spent in this same place, this same body. Think about changes and the cacophony of change.

I shut the warm spray off, stand for a second in the cloud of its steam. Inside of me gone quiet. The water slips down the drain at my feet, bound for deeper wells.

_She loves me._

***

At dinner, Marge Prewett drops off a note from Lily.

J,

I’m really sorry, but I don’t see myself leaving Marlene tonight. And tomorrow morning’s pre-N.E.W.T. practical in Alchemy, so I’ll be caught up till afternoon.

I feel really foolish and unhappy with my timing, earlier. I hope you know I’m thinking of you.

L,

L

I stare at the L; at the L. The absence of the rest. My breath pummels through its chambers. Remus ducks around my look. “Everything good?”

“What? Oh, yeah,” I say, startled to find myself in the middle of dinner. “Just Lily saying she won’t be down.”

Sirius and Peter are engaged in a lively recapitulation of all their favorite Harpies matches pre-1970. Peter keeps throwing his fork down in mock-irritation, Sirius exploding in laughter.

“Had a row?” Remus asks.

I shake my head. “The opposite, actually.”

“You...agreed?”

I laugh and choke a bit on the laugh, and then have to take a long gulp of water. “It’s just that she’s...approaching my level of commitment much quicker than I anticipated.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Remus uses his particular tone of gentle prodding, underscored in a care and tenacity that doesn’t ever feel condescending, or demanding, as it might tend to in others. “That she’s committed to you?”

“Well, yes,” I concede. “Yes, absolutely. But it’s—in terms of her, I’ve always been at peace with my own feelings being deeper, and unrequited, to some extent. Like some part of me was planning on loving her alone, my whole life. Now I just—I have to recalibrate, is all.”

I look up to find Remus looking back at me in surprise. I blink. “What?”

“It’s just—I’ve haven’t ever heard you say that, out loud.” A small smile overtakes him. “That you love her.”

“Oh, really?” I run a hand along my neck, feel my cheeks heat under his scrutiny. “That’s—I’d thought, maybe, at some point, I...”

“The blush on you, Prongs,” Remus laughs, reaching out to give my shoulder a solid, affectionate shaking. His eyes crinkle, cheeks pinched with dimples. “I mean, it’s not as if I didn’t _know_ , it’s just I’d never heard you say it.”

I chew at my smile and shake my head, then have a sudden idea. “Say, want me to take Peter on some mindless frolic for a few hours here? Free up the dorm?”

Remus goes red immediately at the suggestion. I watch his eyes cut to Sirius, who is decidedly still involved in the mirthful Quidditch-based-exchange, grey eyes vibrant as he gesticulates catching a Quaffle mid-air, then instantly pivots into an imitation of fainting spectators.

His eyes return to me, unsure. “Er, really?”

I needle his ribs with a friendly elbow. “ _Yes_ , really.” I reach out to take quick advantage of a recently appeared plate of almond-jam tarts. “I’m down a girlfriend. Got nothing else on.”

Even the tips of his ears are blushing now. “I mean, I guess we could stand a chat, alone.”

“‘A chat, alone,’ yeah? That's what we’re calling it?”

“ _We’re_ not calling it anything, you prat, mind your business.”

“Oh, get off it, Moons.” My lips perk into a smile at the unintended implication, adding, “I mean—if that’s what you’re looking to do.”

“Christ, James,” he says, throwing me a severe look. “Not everyone goes at it multiple times a day!”

“ _Multiple_ —come off it, is that what people think?"

He rolls his eyes. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Well...I suppose...it’s not...always... _entirely_ inaccurate.”

Remus shakes his head and busies himself with a Cornish pasty. “Bloody hell, mate, you’re damned lucky you’ve your own dorm.”

I laugh, leaning forward to ruffle a friendly hand through his hair. “And I thank Merlin every day.” 

“I can’t look you in the eye,” he mumbles down into his Cornish pasty.

Still laughing, I seize a shiny apple from a display of fruit and gulp down the rest of my grapefruit fizz. “Oi, Pete, fancy an aimless wander and potential harassing of apparitions?”

Peter and Sirius both snap their necks in my direction, eyes still alight in their reenactments.

“Just,” Peter says, “Me?”

“Yeah,” I nod, biting into the apple and climbing out of the bench. “I want to hear what I’m missing out on in Magical Creatures.”

Sirius is giving me _a look_. “Gentleman.” I nod to him and Remus, winking at the latter for good measure.

***

Saturday morning finds me antsy. I put the nervous energy to work, initially, banging out a rather nasty Divination composition I’d been avoiding, one meant to illustrate my “personal appeal to the future.” I appeal to the future for an hour or two, post-breakfast. (Appears bleak.) The instant I’m done, I scrap the rest of my half-made plans to do homework, keyed up in a way that can’t be solved with parchment and quills.

I set off to Gryffindor tower, hoping there’s Peter and Sirius who are equally as bored. There is, but they aren’t; they’re in the middle of two cross-bracketed games of Exploding Snap and Wizard’s Chess. Post-lunch, I get to commandeer Pete’s—losing—spot in the two-person tourney, given his having agreed to study with sixth year Hufflepuff Ava Orpington. This Sirius and I give him approximately six minutes’ worth of shit for until he admits if he was “going to fancy a female it would definitely be her,” but we should not take that as meaning he “currently, has ever, or will ever, fancy her.”

Once he’s gone, I bear in on Sirius and climb the ranks quickly, his particular brand of chess-related impatience working, as usual, to my incredible advantage. Mid-afternoon, blue daylight slanting in a massive cut down the middle of the common room, Remus back clambers in and greets us, appearing Alchemy-drained. “How was it?” I ask.

“Ruthless,” he answers, pulling at his tie and loosening his collar. “If that’s just the practical, dunno how I’m going to survive the actual N.E.W.T.”

“You’re a survivor, you’ll survive.”

Remus and I both look to Sirius, the phrase coming out of him so tenderly that it sounds almost like someone else’s voice. But it’s just him, and he’s got a strange light about him, and I feel like an intruder.

“Well,” Remus clears his throat and looks back at me. “Lily said to tell you, if you were here like she thought, that she’d be over once she’d changed. I’m going up to do the same.”

He pauses, for a second. Sirius stares at him, oddly. “What’s this look?”

Remus blanches, shakes his head weirdly, shoves his hands into his pockets. “There’s—there’s no look.” Then he’s gone, disappeared up the stairs.

“There was a look,” Sirius muses, his eyes on the stairs, on Remus’ leaving. He turns back to me. “Wasn’t there a look?”

“Definitely a look.”

Sirius cracks a scintillating grin. “Raincheck?”

He’s not sticking around to ask permission; he’s barreling after Remus in nearly an instant and I’ve hardly the chance to yell after him, “Well, I’d have certainly been _check_ ing a _mate_ had you stayed!”

A handful Gryffindor girls stare at me with judgmental eyes from a nearby cluster of armchairs. I wave at them cheerfully and they turn away immediately, dissolving into hushed whispers.

The slant of light coming in from the window shoves three-quarters of the chessboard into shadow now that it’s late afternoon. I reset the game with a flick of my wand, watching as the tiny tottering pieces lumber back to their proud opening stances, two neat lines along each side. The possibility of the board is almost soothing, now: A clean slate.

_How many times have I sat here, surrounded by friends?_ I think of the Order meeting in April; how it feels just as far as it feels too close. _How many times will I have left?_

I hear the girls before I see them. Mary and Lily and Dorcas, cackling in sparkling tones. “...it past that tyrant, no matter how gobby we were—”

“—but that’s it, isn’t it? It’s actually the _textbook_ we wanted, and she couldn’t fathom! Criminal, in my opinion.”

“And so we’ll always be—now, would you look who’s over here, sitting alone like a real _creep_?”

“He’s got ears, Mary, honest.”

And I feel her before I see her, a hand spanning my back, wrapping around my shoulder. “I _have_ got ears, Mary, honest.”

“Right, glad you two have figured out each other’s basic anatomy,” Mary rolls her eyes, tugging on Dorcas’ arm. “Meanwhile, _we’ve_ got an invalid.”

“I’ll come by tonight, will you tell her?” Lily asks as they leave, fingers stroking absently at my shoulder. Her hair is pulled halfway up by a tortoiseshell clip. She looks down at me, smiling. “What _are_ you doing sitting here all alone, creep?”

“Contemplating mortality.”

“Ah,” she nods, eyes landing on the board. “Life is just a series of moves, we’re all pawns, something like that?”

“Something like that.”

I’m staring at her, and she sees, and she knows. But when she opens her mouth to say something else, another voice interrupts.

“ _Lils_!”

We both turn our heads to find the owner of the shriek: It’s Marlene, ambling down into the common room, clad in a startlingly hot pink jumper and not much else barring a pair of sheer black stockings. She stumbles toward us, face lopsided with a grin that feels much too open and glad, considering the heartbreak she’s so recently undergone. Lily must sense something amiss; her hand flees my shoulder, and she addresses Marlene carefully. “Marls? Hi, are you—are you alright?”

Mary is tearing back into the common room, endeavoring for a quick-paced walk that draws no more eyes than are already on her rowdy roommate—which is a bit of a wasted effort, given the majority of Gryffindors present are already gawking. “McKinnon, you’re _not_ to be down here, remember?” Mary’s tone is slated in frustration, though she does her best to keep it under her breath as she sidles up to Marlene. Lily moves to catch Marlene under her arm as the other girl prods a palm on her face, eyes alighting instantly. “Good Gods, I missed you, I really _missed_ you Lils.”

“I know, love, I’m sorry, but why don’t we—”

“—yeah, let’s go upstairs, and we’ll all—”

“Oh, _please_ can Potter come? Would you just look at him! He’s so—he looks so _dumb_ there, all on his lonesome, oh, come _on_ Lily, let him come, will you? Will you please?”

Lily turns her eyes on me and though she rolls them, exasperated, she says, “If Potter’s keen on coming, sure, he’s invited.”

“Oh, happy day!” Marlene exclaims emotionally, practically keening, tottering forward to grab a right handful of my jumper, pulling a bit forcefully. “It’s time to see a _lady_ dorm for the first time in your life!”

Mary is shaking her head and huffing an irritated breath. Lily mouths _Sorry_ , to which I just shrug, rising to join the strange parade as Lily and Mary do their best to persuade a most-definitely sloshed Marlene back up the stairs to their dorm.

Marlene is correct in that I’ve not seen a female dorm, having only received the ability to climb the girl’s stairs without being extricated magically when I donned the title Head Boy. The opposite side of the stairways is exactly the same as the boy’s, except that it immediately smells better, some fresh and citrusy aroma permeating the air.

The girls stop off on the sixth landing up, the dormitory door already wide open. Lily spares me a glance and a rueful smile as she steps inside. 

The room is arranged, again, in a way that mirrors that of the boy’s, save the addition of glittering silvery stars strung all along the ceiling, wispy white curtains pinned around the four posters, a cream-colored rug sprawled in the center of the floor. Dorcas is hunched on a bench at the end of one bed, looking amused as she catches me in the incoming crowd. She sends a three-fingered salute; I raise a hapless hand in greeting.

Marlene frees herself from Mary and Lily, doing a tipsy little spin in the center of the room, a blur of wild pink until she trips on the carpet, stumbling awkwardly to the side. Dorcas bolts upright and grabs about her arms, intoning, “Fucking hell, Marls, careful, honest.”

“Dor, my sweet, _sweet_ Dor, you’re too worried, everything’s fine, it’s all fine and we’re all happy, aren’t you happy?”

Dorcas fixes her friend with a look of such torn grief and exasperation that I feel a sting of sympathy in the middle of my chest. After a second, she just rolls her eyes, setting an arm around Marlene’s shoulders, and saying, “Maybe let’s...just settle down a bit, love, maybe a nap? You wanna nap?”

“Good Godric, _no_!” Marlene screeches, ripping her shoulders from the grip and promptly falling in a heap on the floor. Lily and Mary rush over, as if to help her, but she screeches, “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

Clearly aware that she is, in fact, _not_ fine, Lily looks, helplessly, between Mary and Marlene. 

From the floor, her legs crisscrossing, tantrum seemingly forgotten, Marlene reaches out and tugs at the hem of Mary’s corduroy pants, looking up at her with wide and saddened eyes. “Mare, are you cross with me?”

“No,” Mary sighs, voice softening to add, “I’m not cross with you.”

“Okay, but you _do_ look grumpy, and quite cross. In fact—” Marlene’s brow pinches and she turns her head to Lily, then to Dorcas, all three girls huddled over her in apprehension. “You _all_ look peeved. At me, aren’t you? I’m being shit. I’m being a mess, and you’re peeved, and you hate me.”

“We’re not peeved.” Mary sits down and pulls Marlene into her arms, from behind. “We don’t hate you, either, love, we’re just...worried.”

Marlene leans back into Mary’s body. Lily wraps her arms around her stomach and bites at her lower lip. She turns toward me, then, and walks over, saying in low tones, “Would you—do you reckon Peter’s got a stash of refreshments, or such, in their room? She hasn’t eaten and she’s—I don't want her down to the hall like this.”

“Of course, yeah,” I nod. “I’ll go get something. For the rest of you, too?”

“Erm, maybe for Mary and Dor, but I—” she reaches out for one of my hands and turns it over in her palm. “I’ll go with you, later.” She looks up at me, something like regret flooding her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I say gently, because it’s true. “I’m happy to help.”

“No, I mean—” she brings my fingers up to her mouth and exhales against them. “For yesterday. I—didn’t get any sleep.”

My throat goes dry. I attempt to swallow through it. “Lils.”

In the middle of the room, Marlene has turned toward us and is yelling, “Oh, fuck me, would you just _look_ at them? In fucking _love_?” 

Mary stifles a laugh in her sleeve, though Dorcas does nothing to hide her own.

“Cheers, Marlene,” I say, gently, smiling, looking back to Lily, who is gazing up at me with slightly blurred eyes. “Okay, I’ll go and be back.”

“Thank you,” she says, leaning in to give me the second kiss of my life that stands directly in the way of me saying _I’m so in love with you_.

***

As fate would have it, I run into Peter as I’m descending the stairs into the common room. His eyes light up when he sees me, clearly on his way to the boy’s side. “Fancy a round of Gobstones? I’m right knackered—”

“Reckon it’s not quite safe to go up there, mate.”

“Fucks _sake_ ,” he groans, grasping at the strap of his bag to heft it higher on his shoulder. “At least I’ve a warning, though, thanks. Truly you can’t imagine how often I’ve—” he cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “Couple images I’ll have in my mind for eternity, Prongs. I’m serious, it’s a bloody crime, what I’ve seen unwillingly.”

“Worms, I’m sorry you’ve had to carry this burden on your own,” I laugh, too, pulling him in with a friendly arm around the shoulders. “Tell me about each and every trauma on our way, will you? We’ve an errand to the kitchens.”

Cheeks brightening to a brash shade of red, Peter relays a particularly harrowing account of a night when he’d been simply attempting to sleep and quickly realized that neither of his two remaining dorm mates had seen fit to cast a silencing spell prior to embarking on quite the opposite of sleep. This I laugh at until my ribs hurt, if only for the absurdity of even _Remus_ neglecting to avoid such embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Pete, it’s just—I’m so sorry. It’s not funny, but it’s—it’s a _little_ funny. Did you tell them?”

“Bloody hell I did,” Peter responds through gritted teeth. “Made damn well sure that mistake wouldn’t be made again. Offered to put up the charm myself!” 

Our jaunt lands us in the broad, brightly-lit basement corridor, where Peter reaches up to tickle the pear, and its absurd giggle transforms it, instantly, into a large green door handle. Peter peeks in through the kitchen's entrance and puts in a good word with Millie and Dot, who shuffle out a minute later with several small parcels of food and curtsy uncertainly to me where I stand behind Peter. I lend them the warmest smile of thanks I can manage. “You’re a peach, Pettigrew,” I say sincerely as we head back up to the tower. “McKinnon will appreciate this mid-bender.” We laugh, and he adds, “Anything to assuage the dreaded midnight hangover.”

“Not that you’ve any personal experience.”

He shoves me in the side. “Sod off. It’s not _fair_ I’ve such low tolerance, what good’s all this fat for if not absorbing sodding Firewhiskey?”

When I drop the parcels off for the girls, Lily keeps the door halfway closed. “I won’t be long here, I don’t think, meet you in the common room in a bit?”

“Think I’m off to the boys, actually, meet me there?”

“The _boys_ ,” she echoes teasingly, running a hand down the arm of my bright blue jumper. “Alright. Lovely color on you, by the by.”

My stupid heart stutters. “Evans.”

“I miss you,” she murmurs. I bend down, slightly, just to feel her hand pluck closer to my body. From inside the room, Marlene screams, “Furrrrrck off, Potter! No...none lads _allowed_ , you conceited _prune!_ ”

Lily winces. “She doesn't mean that. It’s just she found Dor’s gin stash while we weren’t—and, anyway, she’s in the mean stage, now. It’s about to get brutal, so food is godsent.”

Marlene is yelling, “Oi! What’re...what’re think you’re... _urgh_ , geroff me, Mare, ’m not being _rude_ , it’s just he’s a four-eyed _fucker_ —”

“Please go, before she attempts a drunken hex and has an aneurysm, instead,” Lily pleads, promising, “I’ll be over soon.”

Peter’s already up to the old dorm, and Sirius and Remus are—allegedly—through exchanging _looks_ , so the four of us settle into a long put-off game of Gobstones Elite, a Marauder-invented spin on plain old Gobstones that involves double-speed games, a knut-stacking element that wildly encourages irresponsible betting behavior, and a healthy dose of lewd heckling; ball-related jests seem to just make themselves in the presence of the heavy, colorful game pieces. Halfway through the second round—Remus blowing us all to smithereens, as usual, because Sirius and I are too high-strung for such a concentration-oriented sport, and Peter is far too over-concerned with perfect hits to gain points—a voice sounds from the door.

“How reasonable and unobtrusive you lot are being on a Saturday night.”

We all glance up to find Lily leaning, arms-crossed, in the doorway. Sirius says, “We were holding off being obtuse till you got here.”

“Obtrusive,” Remus corrects gently, smiling, and I catch between them a look so private that I thank myself, retroactively, for encouraging Sirius upstairs earlier. I want them to have that feeling as often as they want, if it’s making them stare at each other like that. 

“Here to chaperone us to dinner?” Peter asks her, hopeful, checking his watch. “Blimey, it’s on quarter after six!”

Sirius taps his wand briefly to the board to freeze it in its current standing and we clear the dorm quickly, wanting to avoid Peter’s proclivity for misery when not fed dinner at a sensible hour. Down through the common room and out the portrait hole, Lily cozies along my side and clasps my hand in hers. I exhale. “I’m hoping for crab bisque, doesn’t that sound such a spot, tonight?”

“You can be a real ponce sometimes, you know that?” Remus recommends from behind.

“Can take a Potter out of the manor,” Sirius intones. “ _Cannot_ take the manor out of the Potter.”

“Not quite a manor, anymore, mate, you’re lucky you’ll even have a room come June.”

Lily turns her head to look at Sirius. “Staying with the Potters this summer?”

“Well, permanently, more like it,” Sirius deadpans—though I can tell there’s still fresh pain behind the dryness. He meets my eyes over my shoulder and smiles weakly. Remus knocks his elbow into Sirius’ arm and the smile changes into something bright.

“Smashing,” Lily grins. “Hope you like bike riding.”

“The hell is a _bike_?”

“For the love of Godric, Pads, did you even take Muggle Studies?”

“Quit ribbing on me, Pettigrew, you’re not the one who’ll have to accompany these lovebirds round the romantic alms of their charming countryside borough!”

Lily turns her eyes on me, green and lush as the meadows of our last summer, and as though the sight renders me quite unable to walk my foot catches on a nick in the stone floor and she snags me, arm round my middle, just before I fall, her surprised laughter caught in the wool of my sweater; and the sound of it and the near-fall and the idea of summers gone and summers to come slams into me, somehow, the memory of yesterday, of the greenhouse, of her eyes through the potion-haze and her saying _I love you_ so breathlessly; like she couldn’t stop herself from saying it, like she couldn’t wait a single second more. I find myself—in all of an instant—in an identical situation, here, now, pinning her with meaningful eyes, my own hand soft on her supporting arm as I throw over to the others, “We’ll be on in half a mo.”

“Okay, _rude_ ,” Sirius chucks after us, though I barely hear him, focused as I am on pulling our bodies over between the arch formed by two stone cloisters, hallway abridged by the dark blue of winter night. This corridor overlooks the southern lawns. 

Lily’s looking at me in confusion. “What’s on?” I take her cheeks between my fingers like she’s fragile, and she swallows. “James?”

“It’s just,” my voice is fraught, low and raspy; it feels like my throat will close around itself if I don’t get the words out. “I can’t go a second more without you knowing that I love you, too.”

“Oh,” she says, and in the same breath, “James,” again and laughs, a sound that tugs at me, tender. “I know,” she breathes, temple stitched, “I know, I’m—” her shuddered exhale hits my lips and she’s laughing and smiling and pressing her warm lips to mine, smile unshakeable, my own a mirror of it as she breaks away, her brow threaded together as though in agony, “I’m so sorry I said it in the middle of Herbology, I—I wanted tell you when it felt more, gods, _significant_ , so it wasn’t just some blurted out thing, but you—you were saying such sweet words, and I couldn’t help it, how could I—” this part of her voice splits, half to the breath that droves from her chest and lands in the cavity between my ribs. “How could I help it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I insist, quickly, head shaking back and forth. “It doesn’t matter, Lils, it doesn’t matter where you told me, you could’ve told me in the middle of the Merlin forsaken Forbidden Forest and I wouldn’t have cared one jot, you don’t—” I tremble where my wrists meet her chin; she brings one hand along the small earthquake, thumb brushing over mine. It’s simple enough to stun me. “You don’t know what it means to me, to hear you say it.”

Lily blinks, slowly, the backs of her fingers mapping a course from my cheek to jaw, and she pulls my mouth back down, breaths out. “I love you.”

I realize I am drawing some sort of line between _James before Lily_ and _James, here._ I open my eyes just in time to catch her lip-biting, the three-freckles aside her nose, perfect and true. “Lily, I love you, too.” With the same air I tell her again, for good measure, for the part of me that’s wanted to tell her for months, for years, for other, already-lived lifetimes. “I love you.”

And then we’re necking mid-corridor, caught up in the tunnel carved out by two bodies and I wonder, fleetingly, who will be here to hollow us out of the collapse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr: @efkgirldetective


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many many many thanks to Senem for being such a wonderful beta!

* * *

15

I want to share your mouthful

I want to do all the things your lungs do so well

—alt-J, “Every Other Freckle”

***

_Lily_

I’m pulled from a warm dream of green grass and spring rain by lips on my shoulder and fingers slipping the hem of my shirt. It must be early morning, still, not on seven; the melodic chime of my alert charm not yet rung. I stretch my toes out and meet two other feet, bare. The lips on my shoulder roam the crevice of neck. My limbs prickle, languorous in sleep.

James kisses the skin below my ear. I nudge my hips back lightly and find him hard; I push further, and he curls an arm around my abdomen, pulls me back. I moan instinctively, barely awake. Everything tingly and sensuous. The room is cast through in early morning shade. James hums pleasantly at the lazy roll of my hips, tongue licking long, broad swathes down the side of my neck. I roll my chin, tucking my head back onto the pillow; find the blurry form of him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

The shadow of the room is hardly enough to hide stubble flecking his jaw, dark waves brushing his brow, the lilted pull of mouth as I reach back for his warm chest. His laugh, too, is warm. He smiles around my ear. “Good morning, birthday girl.”

I drifted away thinking, _I’ll be eighteen tomorrow_. The truth felt strange on the cusp of sleep, a ribbon of light in the blank abyss. I hardly believed it, even as I thought it. “I’m quite older than you now, you know.”

He steals a kiss and I breathe into it like I’ve been days without oxygen; tongues ardent and drifting. “I find it a rather attractive trait in a woman.” He sweeps a hand under my shirt, over the plane of my stomach. “Being older and wiser. More equipped for the world than I.”

As though he isn’t equipped to reduce me to just quivering; and I, myself, equipped for little else than grasping his chest, tugging at hair, desperate for any purchase in this slipstream. It’s startlingly quick how I can’t breathe, how my hips writhe of their own stubborn accord—and then his resistance from behind, both delicious and cruel, making me near delirious through thin layers.

“But certainly you seem—” I shift my neck as far around as it will go, urging his lips back to mine, hot, slanted. “—like an able-bodied young—” his fingers usurp the repartee unfairly and fold between my thighs and the air stutters clear from my lungs and I can only choke out my last clever word, “ _Lad_.”

James smiles into my cheek, gone pink in the wake of his breath, as his fingers part shorts and press underneath. “Able-bodied, hm?” he whispers. “Enough to please you, you think?”

“Yes,” I rasp, pleadingly, desperate for his fingers to move, to rub, to stroke, to _anything_ besides sit still and mock. I carve a hand to his bicep and grasp, tight. “Yes, _please_ , yes.”

His smile disappears into one pale shoulder, teeth scraping tenderly as his lips negotiate a slow, downward path. Riddled in urgency, I'm pulling at the loose, scalloped neck of my shirt so my fingers fill with the flushing swells—which proves offensive, apparently, to James, who makes a sound of jealous contempt and has me gasping when his arm snakes under my neck to hold the breast himself. My head finds soft landing on his arm. I grin at the extent of his childish claim, arch into his palm. His breath warms the shallow of my collarbone and he's sucking so hard in one spot he'll surely leave a mark, a small purple bruise; a reminder of _teeth here, mouth here_. I scramble blindly down the side of his body to squeeze his hip, accelerate his pressing, denote my ardent, growing need.

He whispers it to my skin, shallow and dense, “Lily,” and it sounds like pain, so I turn my head, a wave of red hair falling heavy at my throat. I press my face into his hair and inhale; he smells bed-warm and musky, like leaves and woods and lingering shampoo. He repeats my name, and I urge his face toward mine, fingers dancing his jaw; find eyes so clearly gold without the barrier of glasses. He bears into my gaze. Torn open by similar want. His fingers pause in the valley between my breasts to stroke. “You’re gorgeous. You’re so gorgeous.” He kisses me, once, slowly; then breaks away, eyes spilling over me like honey; his hips roll forward, indulgently, and my breath cuts open to whimpering. “I could look at you forever.”

“Not _forever_ ,” I gasp, hand on his cheek, stroking, pulling him back to my lips. “Got Charms in two hours.”

He laughs and it makes my fingers tremble, latched helplessly at his jaw, searching for somewhere to stay. My tongue darts out and his laughter dissolves into a grating moan, eyes gone dark, thighs tensing behind me. “How do you want to come?” he breathes. “Fingers?” The hand among my legs demonstrates and I bolt to the touch, heat spiking through. “Lips? Tongue?” Said lips and tongue punish the pulse at my wrist, languid. He is pointedly ignoring the manic twist of my torso, how badly I want to turn and fall into his touch, feel his body bearing into mine like heavy water. His hand strokes the sensitive swathe of ribs, unhurried at my breasts, rounding nipples between the vee of two fingers. I expel an irritated breath; pry at his lips with my fingers, receive nothing but a wet tongue, a smirk, a swiftly tugged-at nipple. I writhe, helpless. “Maybe I’ll lavish your lovely tits for a while,” he ponders hoarsely. “See where that gets—”

“ _Prick_.” My throat nearly constricts with the effort to push out the word, because somewhere between his coaxing words two devious fingers have slipped inside of me and I clench to the touch, dizzy with intrusion, wrenched with hunger for something fuller; something thick. “I want your _prick_." 

James hums a pained agreement into my wrist and slips the fingers out immediately, pulling my shorts down, and then off. I shift my shoulder down onto the bed, nestling into the crook of his arm; finally get a good long look at his sideways form. I reach down to palm his cock. Hips stutter to the touch. “Lils,” he groans, struggling to cast off his pants in favor of my hand wrapping snugger; he’s so hard, warm and leaking. My fingers slip the willing length, thumb rolling the tip, smearing the swollen head; his breath caught between my teeth as he pants. His throat is lighting up red. I kiss him with a slowness of his own making and curve my hips back to his, tugging him closer, whimpering as he loiters just before pressing inside. 

He stills and looks at me, lost. I pry his lips apart with a finger. “Hi,” I say, filled as I am. “Hi,” he laughs, breath a narrow cylinder. The coarse hair crowning his pelvis pushed against my arse drives me wild, something so rough in such stillness. One of my knees in limbo, forced upward and hanging between our bodies; I pull it to my stomach, fingers spread under the thigh. I watch his brow complicated with the adjustment, watch his lips moisten from a swipe of his tongue. He pushes his hips forward slightly and I gasp with it, holding his eyes; gold gone dark. Even if it’s obvious, I whisper what’s stuck in my throat. “I love you.”

His lashes flutter as his eyes shut for a second. He shifts my hand out from under my thigh to hold me up himself. “I love you.”

The confessions still feel new, exhilarating—though it’s been a few days since the Herbology incident, the sleepless night, the next day in the corridor; his eyes filled with such earnest determination, the words so heavy and real. That night he unraveled me thread by thread, pressing the words into my skin again and again, pulling out of me a pleasure so agonizingly sweet I was sure I would never feel anything so heavenly again; I was proved wrong not hours later, when I climbed on top of him as we woke and pulsed achingly slow, our bodies warm and desperate. I gasped the same words into his neck as I came, his hands keeping me firmly on earth, my name a steady spell on his tongue.

Being in love, it seems, is as potent an aphrodisiac as there is—this morning no different as his hips press in on me from behind, rolling, drawing out a steady whimper as I’m sloped, headlong, into something sublime. The outset is grueling slowness; languid and tender. I push two fingers into his mouth, feel his tongue roll over them gently. I pull them out and touch my swelling clit, rubbing slow circles. A thin sheen of sweat decorates the line of his nose; darkens the crown of his hair.

I like James urgent and quick; I like him bearing down on me roughly, chasing his own breath, groaning and biting his lips with his teeth; I like him sobbing into my neck, hips snapping frantically, hands thrust through my hair, threaded, tugging. 

But here: Here, I adore him. 

I adore him sickly sweet, languorous, easing my body through an indelible pulse of good pressure, the kind that builds in breathy sighs; the gentle swelling of a river-bound stream. I adore his lips slow on my neck, roving breasts and throat, breathing into my ear and asking me how it feels, asking me if it _feels good_. 

“Oh, oh, _Potter_.”

He’s got his mouth on a breast and the sound of it—lips and their subtle suction, spit wetting the skin just to be dragged across a nipple—and the feeling of his tedious fucking, the way he slips out completely just to push back in, painstakingly slow—is sensory overload.

His smile vibrates against me. “That good, huh?”

At my bent thigh, my hand slots over his and our interlaced fingers manage to overwhelm me the most; this working together, the vulnerable nearness. “So, so good,” I twist my neck to the side, chin tilting up for his mouth, rosy and wet. Our lips intersect, heated, insistent, and I can feel from the rumbling groan he empties into me that his patience of pace is wearing just as thin as mine. I reach around for his hip and squeeze. “Will you—”

He intuits. Hips rise and fall to match the rush of our breathing; harried, gusting. His arm slips further under my thigh to grasp my fingers round the other side. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you, baby." 

I let him take care of me. My eyes lull shut to the growing tide; fingers skimming into his hair, letting him kiss me slow. His fingers tender and pressing, hips bearing in, and I am humming, very close. I watch his eyebrows crease, cheeks sucked in, hear his breath shorten, then deepen, then stammer, transfixed. There’s the sensation of falling without stopping. His last breaths—strangled cry, mouth lurched into my shoulder, gone slack—roll straight to my lungs, and the way he sobs, the way his fingers clamp down on my thigh, pulling my hips up as he comes, thighs clasped frantically through the freefall, the slowburn; my grip in his hair helpless, searching for gravity. Eyes fall shut as I pulsate, as I whine some unintelligible string of words, some _fucking hell_ _James holy hell oh my god oh my gods oh my gods._

And I am ruined, already, for the rest of the day, knowing we can’t just lay here in the aftermath and kiss for hours, take a slow, sensual shower, dry off and fuck again before we’ve even left the bath, eyes meeting in the mirror above the sink.

I shudder through with the day we can’t have, feel his lips on my shoulder, his hips slowing, easing. “So full,” I murmur, treading fingers on his chin to bring him back to me. I adore, here, the hand smoothing up my torso to my cheek, the thumb that strokes. I am sighing; I am a cliché. Besotted and sated and full. “Of you,” I press back into his hips and feel just how full. “Of _you_ ,” I repeat, scouring the sweaty plane of his chest, palm spread over the thud of his heart. 

I think in this moment that he is a door, pushed ajar, with long, warm swathes of light falling from behind, and I am curling my hand to the frame, pulling it open, letting the light fall onto me, over me, inside of me.

He whispers my name and kisses me deeply. He breathes, and nods, and pushes his thumb under my jaw, and there’s a red stain painting his cheek that makes him look like a painting, ethereal, sweat-glistened, damp-curled. “It’s almost too small in here, for all of it,” he says, covering my hand with his hand, and laughing, and smiling. “Implosion eminent.”

“Implosion,” I repeat and kiss him again and again and again. Stuck between our bodies is a sensation that still, we haven’t stopped falling.

***

_James_

Lounging on the bottom steps of the staircase, waiting for Lily, I tilt my head back and smile. I think of the way she reached for me as I left her bed, took my arm and kissed the veins raised blue on my skin; she put her lips to my wrist, then my palm. “Okay,” she said. “Now you can go.”

There’s a sound from above—an exaggerated gasp—and her door swings open and she calls down, “ _Lilies!_ ”

I tip my head back further and look up at her, upside down. “Like them?" 

“My heart,” she says, so quietly I can barely hear. She disappears, and I’m still smiling.

When I was young, infatuated without rational thought, I assumed that giving Lily a birthday gift extravagant and thoughtful enough would make her realize how wrong she’d been about me. I attempted the feat twice—second year, and then fourth—to no such avail; I received wide, embarrassed eyes, furiously red cheeks, harsh words, leveled at me tightly at a low volume. And the gifts—a bottle of French perfume (stolen from Mum) and a green cashmere scarf that matched her eyes perfectly (bought myself)—were shoved back into my miserable arms, unwanted.

Despite how misplaced my intentions had been—irresponsible and overzealous and oblivious—it still hurt to watch her reject the gifts, tokens I thought so full of my obvious adoration, were physical manifestations of how my chest choked every time she was near, how I lay awake at night and listened to everyone sleeping, mind stuck on a repeated clip of her tucking hair back behind an ear when it fell in her face. I couldn’t fathom how wrong I was going at it; how incorrect the angle. 

Today, she let me kiss her awake. The gift, still thoughtful—a little extravagant—is for _her_. Not the person I thought she was.

I’m still smiling when she comes down the stairs and pulls me upright, hair tied back halfway with a ribbon. “They’re beautiful, I love them, thank you.” 

My hands steady against her back as she kisses me. “Just refresh my memory,” I say, pulling back. “You _do_ like being serenaded in the middle of class, yes?” She laughs, eyes bright and affectionate. “Yes, you’re remembering right.” I try to kiss her again, but she slips out of my arms, pulls at my hand. “I abhor subtlety. I demand the grandest gesture.” I let myself be pulled through the portrait. “Oh, thank Merlin. You’re going to just love the banner I’ve floated over the great hall.” 

***

_Lily_

Mary shoves a papered rectangle at me over breakfast, long and narrow and tied up in a thick, magenta ribbon. She raises her eyebrows excitedly. “Go on!”

It’s a small pouch, beautiful mahogany leather, with a row of slim, sewn-in loops. “For quills, or pencils, or whatever other muggle nonsense you’re keen on,” Mary explains.

“Mare, it’s gorgeous,” I gush, running my fingers along the case. “Thank you, really, this is just what I’ve needed.”

Mary accepts my quick embrace, her arm along my back. “Figured it was the only way to get you to shut up about the old one.”

“Lils, oi,” Marlene is leaning down over Dorcas across the table, a piece of toast between her teeth. “My present is back in the dorms.” She tears off a corner of the toast. “It’s inappropriate.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes. “She won’t quit going on about it.” Mary adds, “And won’t tell us what it is. Had it since summer, allegedly.”

“I _have_ had it since summer,” Marlene digs an elbow into Dorcas’ side as she sends a withering glare toward Mary. “And I just don’t want to ruin the surprise.” 

“Okay, I’m truly frightened,” I admit readily, stirring a spot of sugar into my coffee.

“Don’t be. You’ll be thanking me.” She points her toast at James, next to me. “Potter will be, too. Suppose it’s a bit more for him, thinking about it.”

James glances up from buttering his own toast. “Pardon, now?”

“So definitely a sex toy?” Mary asks Dorcas, who nods adamantly in agreement.

“No,” I shake my head, “couldn’t be, last year—” and then I stop, because Dorcas’ brow is creasing, and I realize the gift Marlene gave me last year has been—up until now—a close-lipped secret.

“I fucking _knew it!_ ” Mary exclaims, as though vindicated—which, in all honesty, she is, given the time and effort she’s wasted trying to pry the truth out of me. 

“Am I allowed to ask what’s going on?” James’ voice is quiet and inquisitive, and it’s very endearing but I’ve no time for it because Mary is wheeling on Marlene, demanding, “How come _I_ never get gifts like that from you, huh?”

“I—it’s—” Marlene stutters, briefly, eyes caught on Mary’s for only a moment before they dash down to her plateful of fried potatoes. “Didn’t think you’d, er, be interested. 

Dorcas offers me an expression of knowing so subtle I almost miss it.

“Sex toy?” James whispers, sounding desperately confused. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“I’m sure she’ll show it to you, Cap,” Dorcas laughs, “if you say please.”

I look over at him, see how earnestly his eyes alight with curiosity, a curled-under slip of dark hair brushing his brow. I lean over to kiss his cheek. He looks back at me, a spot of pink blooming where my lips had been.

***

James leans over me during Transfiguration lecture under the guise of “being such complete bollocks at spelling incantations” and “needing to sort out the fiddly letters in _Crinus Muto_ ” when really he’s just gently pressing his mouth to the side of my neck, right in the middle of class; then slumping back into his seat, quill flying across the page.

My lips part. His lips gone. I try to swallow the smile but I can’t.

“Lecture, Potter.” I keep the words quiet, but they’re half-hearted. I wish he would keep kissing my neck; I wish we could skive off and neck in a broom closet; I wish we were somewhere far away, like at the cottage in Holland-on-Sea, where we could laze about and shut out the rest of the world.

James chews thoughtfully on the end of his quill, looking at me with glazed-over eyes.

“Stop,” I murmur insistently, mortified at how quickly I’m affected by just a look from him in _Transfiguration_ of all places.

He bites his lip and shakes his head. Scratches something down onto parchment. Taps a finger down to it.

_Shall I pretend to be violently ill so we can find a local broom closet?_

The side of my neck heats red. I breathe carefully

_Shall I hex you so you’re actually violently ill?_

I look pointedly away as he reads, focusing on Professor McGonagall at the head of the classroom, exhorting on the intricacies of Conjuration.

_I get it, you hate me. I’m just trying to make your birthday nice, and you hate me._

I roll my eyes when I read this, scratching down a hasty response.

_You_ _have_ _made my birthday nice! Very_ _nice!_

_Okay, I forgive you. Shall I raise my hand and tell Minnie it’s the day you were born?_

_YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING. _

He grins, just a little, returning his gaze to the front of the classroom. My heart flutters, irresponsibly. 

***

_James_

Afternoon study on Tuesdays is an irksome hour-and-a-half slotted between lunch and final classes. It tends, inevitably, toward exhaustion. Double Potions—grueling marathon of mental and physical effort—falls just before lunch, and Astronomy or Alchemy follow study, both being subjects one cannot reasonably hope to absorb whilst asleep. The hour and half between it all, meant to focus on coursework in the middle of the warm and cozy library, rarely—if ever—holds productive potential.

It helps remarkably, however, to sit with Lily, Remus, Mary, Dorcas, and Emmeline Vance, (a longtime friend of Mary’s, Ravenclaw) some of the most unrelenting students I’ve encountered. Among them, I’m weekly made to chose between diligence, or looking a lazy fool.

Across the table, Lily is trying to bully Dorcas into telling her any little detail about her birthday party, putting on her sweetest smile and playing the role of the innocent, rather than someone trying valiantly to ruin her own fun. Similar tactics had hardly worked on me through the course of the morning—though, granted, her arsenal of tactics in my general direction involved quite a bit of lips and tongue, of hands apt to wander rudely below the belt while certain hips pushed slowly against certain other hips—which, I’ll admit, quite almost worked a handful of times.

Operating word being _almost._

Remus shoves his alignment diagram toward me in a huff of audible frustration. “I’m four moons off, or something, I sodding know it. Looks brilliantly wrong, see?" 

I compare his diagram to my own, which is half as filled and appears—if possible—even _more_ brilliantly wrong. “Er, hate to say it, but...I think we’ve both done rubbish jobs.”

Remus’ head falls into his bent palms, fingers intersecting handfuls of hair. The full moon’s still a week away, but the tide is already tugging at him, scratching under his skin. He described it once as an itch at the very center of his body. I fix him with a sympathetic look as he emerges between his fingers and says, “I couldn’t give two knuts about this, is that bad?”

“Not bad, no. I happen to agree. _Alas_ , we’ve both got reputations to uphold.” I grin, flattening my voice into a hush and directing it down the table. “Hey, Vance!”

Emmeline happens to be a verifiable lexicon of planetary jargon, lucky for both of us. She looks up, disconcerted, dark eyebrows fixed into a crease above her nose. “What is it?”

I shuffle both mine and Remus’ diagrams toward her. “Little help?”

Emmeline eyes the diagrams, then eyes the two of us, then sighs, deeply. “You realize you’ve each somehow severely crossed up the—” she lets out a gentle laugh, shaking her head and tearing off a bit of parchment to dash a few quick lines. She pushes the parchment in our direction. 

Io, Europa, Ganymede, Callisto (Jupiter)

Enceladus, Titan (Saturn)

“ _Oh_ , Christ,” Remus takes back his diagram to examine. “You must think us amateurs.”

“We’re _all_ amateurs, Lupin.”

I squint down at my own diagram to discover where I switched the moons of each planet, and have—somehow—assigned Callisto to _Neptune_ , a planet completely uninvolved in the assignment. “Vance, you’re my hero. Eternal thanks.”

Emmeline just rolls her eyes and reembarks on her work, muttering, “Can put a moon in front of a Gryffindor, just can’t count on getting it back in the correct orbit.”

I’ve been trying all term—to small avail—to figure out whether it’s Mary or Marlene she fancies.

I set off amending the muddling of moons—which, once amended, makes the rest of the diagram a stupidly simple task. From across the table I hear Dorcas murmuring to Lily, “I know it’s your birthday, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, but your freewheeling attitude toward this presentation makes me want to hurl myself in the Thames."

“It’s not _freewheeling_ ,” Lily asserts quietly. “I’m just not keen on giving us any anxieties we needn’t feel.”

Dorcas turns her eyes on her. “But I _need_ those anxieties. You’re doing that overconfidence thing that _always_ makes me flail on the spot.”

Lily shakes her head adamantly and insists, “I am not! And you won't flail, I promise. Name two other pairs with even half the—”

“Wotcher, Meadows!”

The greeting sounds as though it comes from halfway across the library. The volume of the voice, imbued with such lazy account for the quietness of the room, is immediately assaultive—and all six of our heads pop up at the interruption.

A strong gait and easy smile accompany Finn Doyle, who appears either unconcerned or unknowing of the sharp looks he’s earned from peers up and down the center of the library.

My breath pauses halfway in my lungs when I see he’s joined by two others: The first being Harriet Vaughn, who I hardly recognize off the pitch, her long black hair usually so concealed by Keeper headgear.

And the second—the second I’d recognize on or off the pitch, regrettably. 

Owen Flannigan.

The situation is promptly surreal. Given what little I know of Dorcas’ connection to Doyle, I’m unsure if public interaction is normal between them. Come to think of it, I’ve rarely seen them interact beyond silted necessities in class and during games, where they can hardly hope to avoid one another.

I spare Dorcas a glance and find her gone red. This reaction, combined with the dodgy smile Doyle continues to sport in her direction—even under the firm scrutiny of our entire table—makes me think this meeting is _not_ sanctioned, and may, in fact, be some kind of retribution.

And not to mention Flannigan, his eyes fixed, smugly, stupidly, _pointedly_ down the table: Right on Lily.

My blood is set to an immediate boil. On a rational level, I know losing my temper here would hardly boast a new sensitivity toward evading altercation. But I already feel an amalgam of everything I know about this bloke gathering dangerously in the forefront of my mind, obscuring rationality and the diplomacy of reaction it might allow.

My teeth clench just at the sight of him: Abhorrent blonde hair, hands tucked so nonchalantly into trouser pockets, blazer lapel popped out as if he fancies himself the debauched prince of Ravenclaw.

I, for one, believe he’s closer to Lily than he should be _legally_ allowed.

And before any one word is even uttered, I am irate.

The first word, as it goes, is uttered by Dorcas. She takes on a careful, silted tone, speaking almost under breath, perhaps in some effort to respect the laws of the library—or, quite possibly, to reign in her own boiling blood. “Little far from Ravenclaw tower, are we, Doyle?”

Doyle rolls his shoulders backward, unperturbed. “I resent any implication that I’ve never been to the library.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Emmeline mutters. I look down the table to find her sporting a stunning glare in Doyle’s direction.

He shoots her back an amused look. “Such odd company, Vance?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, fuck off, will you?” Dorcas seconds, icy stare daggering. They stare at each other a moment, something inscrutable passing between them. 

And then, apropos of nothing, Flannigan says: “Hi, Lily."

It’s the first I’ve looked over at her because I’m fearful of what I’ll find—and what I find is a slated fury, sewn into the tense knit of her brow, the tense set of her jaw, her knuckles gone white gripping her quill. I wish, with sudden urgency, that I was sitting close enough to her to grasp the knuckles, to kiss the jaw, to unknit the brow. Wash her clean of unease.

But I am far, and unable, and her voice is carefully controlled when she responds. “Owen." 

The idea that at some point she said that name without imbuing it in such disdain burns me hotter than it should. I ought to take fourteen deep breaths and leave the table, take myself far, far away.

But no matter how irrational the jealousy, how retroactive, how juvenile: It lodges itself in the cavity between my ribs and tears a toxic chasm. 

Flannigan has the gall to flick his eyes to mine, next. “Potter.” 

I ought to have guessed my name would sound more like a curse coming from him. 

The chasm _burns_. 

I feel Lily’s feet intersect mine frantically underneath the table, hooking around my ankle and squeezing. It’s a warning: _Don’t you fucking dare engage him, James Potter._

Engage him I most certainly will.

“Flannigan,” I respond ever so evenly. “Glad to see you’re finally taking some initiative on that deplorable Divination grade.” 

“Give him some credit, James,” Dorcas adds. “He’s only just learned to read.” 

Owen flashes his eyes to her. Doyle pins an elbow into his friend’s side as if to temper any forward movement. Next to them, Vaughn scoffs incredulously. “The hell’s the matter with you lot?”

“Think _you lot_ have well overstayed your astonishing lack of welcome,” Dorcas snaps. “That’s what’s the matter, _Harriet._ ” 

Doyle seems rapidly sinking in a quicksand of his own creation. “Dorcas, I—” 

She looks at him, fiercely. “If you’ve something to say, Finn, go ahead and fucking say it.”

Doyle falters. Something genuine flits across his coarse veneer, and his eyes soften on Dorcas. His mouth opens, then closes halfway, then opens again—then shuts, and stays shut.

This is evidently the match in the powder barrel for Dorcas. She’s suddenly making a mad scramble of gathering her things and shoving them into her bag and scraping backward in her chair and stalking off through the stacks—an exit that Doyle follows hastily, eyebrows pinned anxiously to the middle of his forehead.

Flannigan takes the opportunity of turned events to raise his eyebrows at Vaughn. “Maybe she’ll finally put out and we’re finally out of our misery, eh?”

“Were you right dropped on the head as a child, you absolute cod?” Mary says in a tone so biting several heads toward her.

Owen turns an unkind eye on her, and my dislike of him deepens and twists into something so volcanic I’ve no course but eruption.

“I think you should leave.” 

Flannigan turns and is aglimmer, instantaneously, with the desperation to fight, to prove himself, to best me. 

Lily digs the heel of her shoe into my ankle. 

“Now,” I add, politely. 

Infuriatingly, the prick just turns back to Lily.

“Happy birthday, Lils.”

The chasm rips open and screams.

Vaughn tugs crossly on Flannigan’s elbow, and with one last punishing sweep around the table, he turns and follows her out in the direction they came.

“What a fucking wanker,” Mary mutters, looking over at Emmeline. “How’d’you stand them?” 

“I don’t,” Emmeline winces, reaching up to tuck stray hairs behind her ears. “Only one among them that’s any tolerable is Harriet, and she’s too weak to stand up to Owen. I’m sorry, Evans. He’s _such_ a shit.” 

Lily shoots a half-convincing smile in her direction. “Thanks, Em. It’s fine. Used to it.” Then she’s looking at me, perhaps evaluating the overreaction she expects is simmering underneath my skin—which isn’t far from the truth. I _am_ simmering, still, in the moment that’s just expired, the nerve endings in my feet and hands tingling as if raring for a hypothetical fight. 

Remus is looking at me, too, from the side. I avoid both of their eyes. I stare down at my Astronomy work, the words all blending together into a web of misplaced ink. I inhale, deeply, and decide to take the Dorcas way out. 

“Excuse me.” I announce, waiting for no acknowledgment before rising from my chair and fuming all the way to Magical Maths—a section I can count on being seldom visited—where I release a torrent of agitated breath into the dusty air, rubbing frustrated hands all over my face. 

“James?” A frantic voice rounds the corner to my dead-ended path and then Lily’s there, peering down at me oddly. “You’re...back here?”

I stuff my hands into my pockets.

“I—” she walks carefully toward my hunched, forward-leaning figure. “I thought you were—”

“Going after him?”

At some point in time, earlier this year, even, I would’ve. I would’ve followed Flannigan out of the library, pushed him around a little, drawn my wand, threatened to take him to task. And it might have made me feel better for a second, made me feel superior, good about myself. But it wouldn’t have lasted. It would’ve left a bitter taste, knowing I could’ve done something differently, that I could’ve been a better person and let it go.

Things are different now. I’ve gained Lily’s trust—not an easy feat—and I’ve no intention of losing it over something as pointless as Owen Flannigan.

“I’m not pleased to remain here, mind you.” I pitch myself against the bookshelf behind me, knowing I sound proper whiny. “I’m chuffed to go after him." 

She sets in on me with a stern look, pressing a knuckle to her mouth. 

“Oh, come on,” I burst. “How is it you’re allowed to be jealous of Kerstin based on barely anything at all, but when that ass waltzes up and says _happy birthday_ to you like the two of you’ve been on jolly good terms all year long, I’m not allowed to be upset?” 

There’s half a beat of silence and a look of conflict on her face—and then the sound of her sharp inhale and a look of firm decision, and she's stepped forward and bunched her fingers full of sweater and is kissing me, hard, in the middle of the stacks, my back pressed willingly to the shelf behind. 

I’m released just as soon as I’m seized, breath panting out erroneously, temple cramped with the pull of surprise, cock all of a sudden rather _highly_ interested. Lily’s grip on me loosens. “I wasn’t going to say you’re not allowed to be upset,” she says quietly. “I was going to say that if you’re _going_ to be upset, you might consider a...mutually beneficial reaction." 

I stare, bewildered, not sure if I’ve latched on entirely to her line of suggestion. “What are you...what are you saying?” 

A thigh pushes between mine. “I think you know.” 

My body knows, of course. I feel her heat and her intention and her eyes, darkening into the lush of a forest. “H-here?” I find myself stammering, poured over in a wave of unmitigated want. 

She steps further into me, the bracket of her body bringing her mouth back, softly, to mine. A miniscule groan floats up the back of my throat. “Do you trust me?” 

“I—” And she doesn’t let me answer until she’s swirled her tongue into the recesses of my mouth, and consequently green-lit the growing hard-on in my pants. “Merlin, yes.” 

Lily slinks off lethargically, holding me an arm’s length away as her fingers slip my shirt. Her lips are swollen red with the snogging. “Good.” She straightens out her sweater, smiles at me, and steps right out of Magical Maths. 

I follow, thoughts of Owen Flannigan positively flung from my mind.

She leads me further into the fissured reserves of higher knowledge, back and back until we’re further in the depths of antiquated books than I can admit to having gone on my own. We pass the dim alcove of the Restricted Section, guarded by a row of carved brass pillars, rigid and daunting as soldiers, and turn a darkened juncture into a hall that ends abruptly in a short, curved door. 

I watch Lily take out her wand and place it to a brass keyhole, murmuring something I can’t hear. The keyhole pulses blue; clicks unlocked. Lily grabs the metallic knob and swings the door open, revealing a narrow set of stairs. She turns over her shoulder to smile, offering me a hand. I take it and let her lead me up. 

At the top of the stairs we emerge from a wood-paneled landing into a cramped, musty space. Two bookshelves flank either side of a room, joined on the far wall by a cushioned wooden bench beneath a wide-paned frosted window. The white of January snow lights everything brightly, even through opaque glass. It smells, distantly, of spoiled ink. Lily catches my eye and points toward a golden placard near one of the shelves:

_Magical Pedigree_

_Lineage, Antiquity, & Genealogy _

_PtM—20_ _th_ _Cent._

My brow crinkles. “PtM?” 

“Prior to Merlin.” 

I find myself unsurprised that sometime in her academic career, Lily was granted access to a charm-concealed inner sanctum of magical history. My lips quirk into a small smile. “Special permissions?”

“Special permissions.”

Her hold on my fingers loosens, and she’s looking at me intently. I feel my heart beating in my throat. Her wand, still drawn, dips down the stairway as she mutters two rapid incantations. I hear the door swing shut and feel a short, cold wind at the force of her privacy charms. 

She drops her wand to the ground, unceremonious. 

I swallow hard. 

She walks toward me and I let myself be backed into the bookshelf, like before. Every space of skin on my body crackles with yearning. I reach for her warm waist and she dips into me, breathing hard, fingers pulling loosely at the slip of my tie. Her lean is intentional and presses into my crotch; she looks up. I can hardly hide the erection. It paints me a foolish schoolboy—which, unequivocally, I am. 

I am also sweating down the back of my neck.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Lily says, licking anxiously at her lips. “Because I know exactly how much it’s going to inflate your ego.”

My hands skim down the pleats of her skirt. I release an unsteady breath. 

Something chaotic and intense lights the pale of her face. Her thighs intersect mine; my hands bunch up with fabric at her hips. My breath is coming from the very bottom of my lungs. 

“Owen was...a real ponce about blowjobs.” 

“A real ponce,” I echo. 

“A real ponce,” she repeats, encroaching closer still, belly pressed right to the bulge of my cock, twitching eagerly at her voice having dropped an octave, her lips grazing the line of my jaw, her fingers slipping my wrists and latching onto my belt loops, tugging. “But you—” she whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth. I shiver, goosebumps erupting over the exposed skin of my neck. “I _enjoy_ sucking you off.” 

My breath becomes a thin moan, one that fattens and rushes out quickly when she melts herself against me. I grasp her skirt helplessly, needy for something to hold. “I like watching you when I kiss your hips,” she says, fumbling at my fly. “When I dig my fingers into your thighs.” She pauses when I inhale sharply, her lips curling into a satisfied smile, her fingers tooling lazily under my waist to shuffle my trousers very, very slowly down around my hips, flapping open in the front to reveal suffocating briefs. “And gods do I love your little gasp when I put you in my mouth.” 

Her fingers unfairly lethargic in the spot of hair just below my navel. She pricks a fingernail through the patch, thumb slipping under the waistband. Her eyes are bright, wanting. She knows her insurmountable control. 

“You like it, don’t you?” she murmurs lowly. “Watching me get on my knees for you? Swallowing you all the way down?” 

“Fuck, oh gods, _yes_ , yes I do,” I blabber defenselessly, reaching for her mouth, sliding my tongue along her lips, feeling her groan at the messiness, the eagerness with which my head slants for something deeper, faster, harder. “I love having you in my mouth, knowing I can make you come,” she pants, kissing a furious line down my cheeks, my neck, nipping at the column of my throat. “I never imagined I’d _enjoy_ it, really, but you...everything’s good with you. I want you to feel incredible.” She’s frantically unbuttoning my shirt, pulling it open to flatten her palms over my nipples, press down on them and make me groan, make me gasp, “Bloody _hell._ ” 

She leaves my mouth with a devilish smile and is just as wickedly kneeling, thighs parted wide as her hands scrape down the length of my abdomen, tangling in the hair peeking up over my briefs. I suck in a big breath of air, hand pitched back for leverage at the bookshelf’s edge, the other clutching her fingers as they fall down the front of my body. 

I watch, tight-throated, as Lily nudges her face into the clear outline of my prick, tongue darting out to taste; she inhales, deeply, whining. My fingers tighten painfully on hers. 

“Lily,” I manage like a sob, back arching unconsciously, hips bucking into the warm stretch of her tongue as she mouths at me. I squeeze my eyes shut for just a moment, hearing the sound of her silted breath and feeling the hard book spines prodding my back. If I’m not careful, I’ll come right in my briefs, hot and sticky and sudden. 

“So eager, Potter,” she purrs along the length of me, biting down with teeth so gently I could weep for it, fingers slipping up under the sides of the fabric to scrape teasingly on my thighs. She tongues the swollen head and blinks up. Kisses me hot and open-mouthed, sucking at the stain of my eagerness. Her neck arches as she retreats, slightly, looking at me through dense lashes.

“I know how badly you wanted to win that bet.” 

My lips part and any hope of clear thought evaporates. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” I say stupidly.

“Yes,” she laughs, and it flowers prettily, misplaced in such a musty place, unvisited and airless. Everything in this room feels illicit, like we’re breaking a rule; my pulse runs thick with the thrill. “Yes, exactly.”

“But—Lils, it’s...it’s your birthday,” is somehow all I can get out, grappling blindly for her hand at my hip. 

“I know.” She looks up at me with an open face. “I want to take you right to the edge and then...” Takes a breath, releases it. “I want you to come inside of me.” Her lips find my fingers where they clasp, tightly, with hers. “Up against the shelf.” 

I have to look away from her, prone on the ground, poised to suck me off, promising a bookshelf fucking in the very near future—I very nearly explode at the prospect alone. My throat works through with the painful effort _not to come_. 

And I sound like I’ve no voice at all, just a body, just a body looking back at her searching eyes. “You’re killing me. You’re killing me, Evans.”

The briefs are down around my ankles before I’ve even taken a breath; in fact, it seems all the air has gone out of me entirely, every nerve ending narrowed down to her lips as they push open over me, tongue spreading under my heavy leaking crown. For a moment she stays here, dipping no further into the broad heat of her mouth, licking around the tip, doling slow, sweet kisses around the entire circumference. A hand rises to grip me at the base, my thighs gone rigid with the firmness of her grip. Heat shoots up through my chest. Her hand falls from my hip. Slow, wet kisses along every oversensitive inch. 

My body is screaming under skin. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. 

_Lily Evans is blowing me in the library._

I hear fabric rustling somewhere below; feel her tongue, pooled in spit, running over my cock. I feel a quick rush of air at the tip and I gasp, eyes snapping open just in time to see her smirk as she sucks me down, whole, the sound of it obscene, the suction of her mouth immediate—and the deplorable fact becoming clear that somehow, in the moments of my eyes closing, she’d gone and undone half the buttons on her shirt, tie abandoned, the swells of her tits barely held up by red lace that has me choking out a groan as I watch her work her mouth up and down my cock, hand prodding my thigh.

“Fucking hell,” I breathe, head falling brusquely against the bookshelf. It rattles at the contact as though bemoaning my presence against it; a volume near my head wobbles violently, threatening to fall. 

Lily thumbs around the base of my prick, pushing her knuckles over the soft skin of my balls. I swallow and I groan, loudly, hips hitching even with such gentle interaction, her breath turning into a whimper as she draws me out of her mouth despicably slow. A string of saliva hangs off the edge of her lip. I feel like someone is tipping a spill of hot water down my spine, so hard and tight in my own body. And she looks up at me a moment, holds my eyes as she takes in just the tip, tongue lolling around. Her hand yanks down the rest of me and I gulp with the speed, shoulder jutting and causing the irritated book to rattle more violently, clattering the entire shelf.

Her eyes like glimmering emeralds. “Careful, love. Some of these are first editions.” 

My throat constricts with a sort of groan-laugh. “You—of course you’re thinking of the _books_ at a time—” the sound becomes a full-fledged feral moan when she takes advantage of my distraction to swallow me down, tip to root so enthusiastically that I breach the back of her throat. “—like _this_ , shit, Lily, _shit_.” She hums as her mouth sets in on me with an earnest rhythm, tongue darting quick, dangerous, strokes, throat tilting open to allow my cock dizzying, astonishing purchase—and in all but an instant it’s too much, I’m perilously close, stamina decimated, her whining a vibration that threatens to have me spilling at an embarrassing rate. “I’m—baby, I’m really close, I’m going to—” 

Lily pulls off me, breath agitated through her open mouth. My cock comes away red and slick, curling, overeager against my abdomen. I gulp in air, offered hardly any relief in the commotion of Lily rubbing her lips into a smirk and climbing up off of the ground, palms pushing up the sweaty sheen of my chest, our mouths meeting indiscriminately in the middle, throats pulled through with gasping. I wrap her in my arms and spin us till she’s thrust against the shelf, my hands running up the backs of her thighs for— 

I pull off, brow tense. Her lips swollen, hair falling in loose tendrils at her cheeks. “Where—?” 

She inclines her head to the ground and I snap my eyes over, find a slip of red fabric not far: The knickers missing from her hips, which push into my palms, warm and bare. “I—” I can’t finish the thought, can’t connect two dots, because my cock is hard and wet and nearly wrecked in the folds of her skirt and I will ejaculate in an instant, surely, if she was doing what I think she was doing while getting me off not seconds prior. 

“What? You think you get all the fun?” She pouts a little, and it’s devastating. I cup the back of her head and kiss her hard, tongue slipping into her mouth and she’s nipping at my lips, fingers crawling up my neck for fistfuls of hair. “It’s _my_ birthday, remember?” 

I smile and laugh along her jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her cheeks, flattening my tongue where her pulse jumps under pale skin. “And the birthday girl wants me to...” I shift my hands down her thighs, aching with the little breath she lets out. “Come inside of her?” 

“ _Yes_.” And impatient, her claiming of my tongue. I can’t ignore the lacy underthings, the gossamer red strained so deliciously over her tits, shirt thrust halfway open. I let my lips lead the way, tracing the expanse of her chest as her fingers drag through my hair. I push past the lace, use my palms to hoist each swell between my teeth, between a laving tongue. 

“Potter,” she growls. “ _Potter_.”

I smile between breasts. “It’s your fault, wearing such a smashing—” 

She yanks my mouth back to hers, emptying me of my moaning, fingernails scratching at the base of my neck, fingers like a vise. I tip forward, pulling myself up to full height, her chin jerking upward with the movement. We kiss like we’ve only seconds left to do it, mouths a clatter of teeth and whining, each tongue convinced it will win, breaths torn out and ragged. Lily’s hand reaches out for my cock and I clutch at her wrist, gasping. “Can’t handle that.” 

She laughs a breathy laugh and touches me anyway, and I _can’t_ handle it, not one bit, so I retaliate, instantly; grasping her arse between palms and heaving her up so she’s wedged between my body and the bookshelf and we’re exactly eye to eye, her throat a small yelping, shocked eyes bright. Bright, bright green. Fingers curl onto my bared neck. “Oh, fuck me,” she whispers, lips gone red with kissing. 

I don’t need to be asked twice.

The logistical rearrangement proves thorny with both my arms secured round her waist, and might even be awkward if it weren’t for her laugh—warm, endearing—and her hand, helping, lifting up her skirt and guiding my prick—hot, weeping—to position. I tighten my arms to facilitate the final upward push and when I finally press into her—I have to press my brow into her neck, gasping. 

Lily clutches my hair and breathes deeply against my face. “Don’t hurt yourself, Head Boy.” 

“Evans,” I’m groaning, tipped over some invisible edge. “I want to die, right here, right now.” 

“No, no,” she laughs. “I need you for meetings.”

I retreat from her neck, find her easy smirk. “That’s all?” 

“Check in with me later,” she inhales. “I’ll let you know.” 

Perhaps it’s the idea of a challenge—teasing or not—that spurs me on, has me thrusting, hard, coaxing from her a breathless moan, an “oh, oh, _gods_.” I kiss her neck, palms hot where they lift her arse. The angle of our bodies coming together unspeakably urgent; not since we visited the coast, so many months ago, have I had her like this, held up by just my arms and intensity of feeling. 

Lily, unbridled, keening, throws her throat wide open, head fallen to the books behind. Her eyes wrench shut; legs clenched taut about my waist. The resulting tightness—perpetrated, in part, by slick inner muscles—seizes my breath and I stutter in rhythm, hips slowing to a full stop, pulled out of course. “No,” she whines, “no, no, why are you stopping?” 

“You...Lily, _fuck_ ,” I grind through my teeth, staring in amazement at her up against the shelf, skin gone rosy, breasts heaving, tumultuous, lips parted and atremble. “When you squeeze like that, I just can’t even—” She smiles, breath falling through parted lips, hips swiveling just barely at all. She squeezes, purposeful. A jolting; a clear directive.

There’s one smooth, hard thrust and the soft noise she makes is enough to remind control, after all, is finite. I bear back in with graceless abandon, licking at the silent, rapturous _oh_ of her lips, watching lashes flutter shut when I pitch into her chest, lathe wet strokes to each pink nipple. I shift slightly on my feet, widening my stance, hips tilting and aiming determinately upward. Lily makes a rough, arduous, split-open sound. “Holy _fuck_ , you’re—” A dreg of longing snagged in her throat. “You’re so deep, oh my god, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

As if stopping is possible, my balls wound so tight between our bodies I’m inchoerent with need, each deep, willful thrust a new and jarring force. Our breathing speeds along the snap of my hips, ruthless, heated and I’m—“I’m really fucking close, Lils, I—” my words hoarse, half-broken, pinned to the ruddy bright of her cheek. She grips my chin and licks into my mouth with an unyielding tongue. “Come for me, baby,” she moans. “Go on, come for me.”

It's like a taut rubber band snaps down, hard and painful; for a long second the only sound is the rasping wetness where our bodies connect; and then everything goes white, split apart, _snapped_. I’m coming, instantly, forcefully, blind with it, shot to somewhere dark and glittering and voiceless as space. Lily makes a helpless, needy noise at the feeling of it, back arching off the shelf, legs clenching ruthlessly, fingers digging down into my back. I collapse into her shoulder, spent and dizzy but barreling onward, filling her up, the way made slick with come, her breasts jostling against my shirt. “Oh my—” she bites down into my neck, sobbing. Her hips buck upward, near helpless with such little traction. I tighten my arms around her and feel her begin spasming, gulping for air, mindless. “ _Fuck,_ oh fuck,” her voice breathless, almost soundless, hands scrambling for something to grip, fisting my shirt, prodding to the beat of quick fucking. “Oh, fuck, it’s—don’t—s-stop, I’m—” and then she goes silent, and the next thing I hear is just my name become a gasp; and then keening, soft and high-pitched and blissful. 

Things settle in slivers through the outer waves; regular sensation returning, the strain in my arms from holding her up, the burn of back and leg muscles with the feat, the fucking; pulse and breathing becoming self-aware, the kisses soft and sweet to accommodate air; her hands, spreading restlessly, up and down my skewed shirt, tender hips, sweaty chest. Lily, for her part, panting gently and beautiful, lips so swollen I can’t stray long, and would stay with them forever if it wasn’t for my arms beginning to quake with effort. 

“Baby,” she murmurs, laughing gently. “You can let me down, your arms are shaking.” 

I let her down, and the stretch as my arms unbend from her waist is tortuous, then relieving. She kisses my neck, my cheek, my brow. I’m staring at her wondrously, body ravaged. Some part of me is wedged somewhere surreal.

She kisses the corner of my mouth. “We just shagged in the library.” 

“We just shagged...against a bookshelf full of first editions.” 

And she laughs again, smoothing a hand back through my hair, no doubt a complete and utter disarray. “ _Some_ first editions, I said.” Her eyes warm and bright. “At least there’s nothing prior to Merlin.” 

I kiss her soundly, because there’s no other course; and her hands latch onto my wrists and we neck without hurry, as though we don’t have class to attend, as if we’ve not already been gone from our table for suspiciously long. 

“Do you feel better now?” It’s a whisper and a kiss, both at once.

I give the kiss back; make it something longer, softer. “Better?”

“You looked completely volatile, earlier,” she breathes between my lips. 

“Oh,” I lean back. I’d almost completely forgotten about the series of events that led us to this moment. “Much better.” I run a finger down her cheek. “You’re a remarkable diversion.” 

She laughs, pink-cheeked, gilded in the afterglow. “If you must know,” her hands fall down my forearms. “All told, the jealousy _is_ sort of sexy.”

“Oh?” I smile. “Sort of?”

“But also completely unreasonable.” She tempers this with another kiss. “Obviously.” 

“Yes, obviously, understood,” I say, dutifully, before adding, “But hear me out: Next time Flannigan shows his face, you come sit in my lap and we snog like, really wetly.” 

“Oh, fucking hell,” she’s shoving at me but she’s laughing, and she’s walking right away from me to retrieve her discarded underwear; and this, this is where my heart feels the warmest, her tender look back, her smile as she puts herself back together. She pours over me like clear water.

***

_Lily_

In all, it’s just a passing. Just a glance. 

Mary, Remus, and I are walking from the library to Alchemy, early evening. Silver-green ties betray them, slicked-back hairs, smarmy, tight-lipped smiles, supercilious statures. They walk in a tight cluster, turned inward, like the idea of having acknowledging outsiders repulses them, collectively. There’s five of them: Malby and Avery heading up, clumped by Heather and Mulciber, and—cowering in the back, curved forcefully in on his own frame—Severus.

Their pride bears a physical mark, something oily and miserable. 

My body clenches with slight nausea. I feel Mary and Remus tense on either side of me. 

Mulciber is the first to sneer; Heather and Malby and Avery follow. Their steps don’t slow, but their eyes—hard, compact stones—follow me as the groups cross the same space, then pass out of it. 

I turn, briefly, as we pass. Severus is looking back at me. He snaps his head back forward. I exhale and feel both Remus and Mary grip my arms. “It’s okay,” I assure them. “I’m okay.”

“Genuinely surprised they didn’t start a fight,” Remus confesses, letting go of my arm.

“Bit odd, yeah.” Something pulses in the back of my head, a dull thud, uneasy. 

“Daddies probably told them to lay low,” Mary grits between her teeth. “Given all this ‘confirmed surge’ shit in the Prophet.” 

_Ministry Confirms Visceral Surges in Dark Magic_

_DMLE to Compound Investigative Task Force_

The article ran three days ago; I’d only been able to stomach about half. The accounts of dark energy innumerable, desperate, pervasive—and had been for the better part of five years. Absolutely infuriating to read in print, given official Ministry reporting had only admitted proof of malevolent forces for the past year.

We turn the corner to Alchemy and I pause near the threshold, nausea seeming to sway inside of my body. “All good?” Mary asks. “Yeah,” I reply. “Just, er, think I need a second to breathe, is all.”

“Okay,” she says, hesitantly. Remus gives me a comforting smile as they turn into the classroom. 

I lean against the exterior wall, parsing my eyes through the thinning crowds of students on their way to final lessons. I feel strange in my body, a visitor. Something hot pierces the flats of my feet. I think of Heather and Malby, glaring disdainfully as they handed over their Prefect badges not a day ago. How their mouths looked so ready to spit on me, show me the kind of usage they thought I deserved; the heaviness of their twin jeering, over my shoulder, right at James. The insinuated message: _You’ve chosen the wrong side. You’ll pay for that choice._

I think of Severus, looking back. I looked for any small remorse, small regret, any _I’m sorry I nearly let you bleed out. I'm sorry I’m such a coward. I'm sorry I’m too weak to do anything but hate myself._

Whatever leftover grief, goading at the sympathetic shell of my heart, I dispel. I reject. His rejection—his treatment—of me still hurts, but I’ve found that with time, the memory of _why_ it hurts unravels, steadily. Every good thing unmoored. Stretched thin and grey; cast off each time I see him cower. 

I swallow and clear my throat; blink through the lingering pain. It bleeds away, its own flimsy thing. 

Mary and Remus are fully settled into our shared bench when I join them. I give them both a confident smile of assurance and unpack my materials. As I’m opening my Alchemy textbook, a folded note falls out between pages.

L,

If you still like me next year on this day, I promise to take you anywhere we can be alone and unbothered. Maybe it’s selfish—and maybe I’m too eager to make up for several specific birthdays when I was, assuredly, a nuisance—but I haven’t stopped wishing we were just where we started, this morning.

Now I’m doomed to stare at the back of your head during Charms, acting very much as though I’m taking down notes, when I’m very much just writing this to you, thinking of you, wishing for you. 

Also, in related news: I’m definitely going to need your notes from this period. 

L,

J

“What’s this secret smile, Evans?” Mary accuses.

I fold the note back up. “No secret smile.” 

She rolls her eyes, readjusting an inkwell. “Sure.” 

Professor Byrd shuffles into the class, tapping his wand noisily on the cherrywood lectern, calling us to attention. I turn my (secret) smile to a fresh page of parchment, write down the date. 

***

I make it to the Prefect office fifteen ahead of the meeting that evening and figure it’s time enough to get ahead on next week’s scheduling—a pragmatic plan immediately quashed by James arriving early, too, not seconds later. He’s sunny-eyed and cheerful, propping himself on my side of the desk, hands latched to the edge.

“I got your note.” 

He gives me an almost-smile. “Which one?” 

“There’s more than one?” 

“Well, one’s just a drawing.”

I find myself grinning, next week’s scheduling be damned, quill abandoned. “Drawing of what?”

“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” He digs around in his bag for something. “In the meantime.” He places a small box wrapped neatly in blue paper in front of me. 

I look at the box, then up at him. “What’s this?” 

He shrugs, as if innocent. I bite my lip and take it in my hands. Smooth a finger over the glossy texture. Up close, there are tiny pink and white flowers blooming over the surface. “I’m nervous,” I confess, pushing a thumb under the seam of the paper to unwrap. 

“ _You’re_ nervous?” he laughs. I look up and he’s watching me, anxiously. The paper unfurls in a barely ripped square. Inside is a flat black box. 

Jewelry-sized. 

Little can stop my heart rate speeding. I keep my eyes fixed steady as I pull it open and unearth, in a black velvet sea: Two silver spilling cosmos. Five glistening stars each.

It seems unreal that the earrings should be here, in my palm, and not buried back in the depths of the shop, gathering the dust of other old and precious things. I guess I’ve been holding my breath, because it all comes rushing out at once. And I’m a little afraid to look at him but I do. His hands are planted on his thighs. He might also be holding in breath. 

“How did you…?” 

There’s a flush climbing up his neck. “You were lingering by one shelf, a long time.” 

I stare. 

“And, erm, some guesswork was involved,” he rubs a hand uneasily across his neck. “There was a crystal dish I thought maybe—” he swallows. “Anyway. Artine searched for your, uh, magical signature, and...these lit up.” 

I open my mouth, close it. Touch a finger to the exquisite pieces. There’s a disconnect between them here, in front of me, and James, here, giving them to me. 

I set the box gently down on the desk and stand up and take just a step to be near him. Maybe he thinks I dislike them; his face is apprehensive and still. I exhale and dip my head down to the crook of his neck and shoulder and breathe out. I feel his fingers, tentative, on my arms. “Lils?” 

It’s a little embarrassing, but I think I might be crying. I’m thinking of him ducking into the shop, letting Artine touch his palm and unweave his future bearings. Maybe she waxed on deers, on souls, on gilded spilling light. There’s an image of the two of them in that narrow room, mismatched in stature but joined in purpose, searching for the place where I lingered, weeks ago. 

I’m thinking of all the care that went into the task. “I love them,” I whisper to his neck. And I kiss there and wipe at my leaking eyes. Fold an arm around his back. “It’s really, really thoughtful.” 

His breath sounds relieved. “Oh, good, okay, I’m happy you—okay, I’m so glad.”

“But they were...” I lean back and remember the shocking sum on the price tag. The discrepancy between our upbringing crystallizes; he’s accustomed to disregarding expense, and I am not. 

He infers from my silence, my hesitation. “I wonder...” he takes my hand and kisses the knuckles. “I _hope_ you might let me spoil you, once in a while.”

It’s hard to avoid melting at the sincerity in his voice, all the wishing in his eyes; I slump a little and fall closer to his face. “Only once a year.” 

“Once a year?” 

I let him kiss me, just a little indulgence, once a year. “And for Valentine’s Day, you’re getting me socks.” I smile, though, when he kisses under my ear. “Bonus if you’ve had some involvement in their making.” 

James gives me a smile that spoils me further. I see shadows encroaching at the cracked office door, hear the sound of chattering as it nears. “We’ve got a meeting.” 

“Meeting,” he repeats as I return to my seat behind the desk.

I take his wrist, briefly. “Also, I love you. Thank you.”

Maybe every smile has been a spoil. I feel very, very rich.

***

“And it’s just going to be small and no-nonsense, right?”

“Evans—” 

“Because you _know_ I would never forgive myself if something on my behalf was disrupting in _any_ way to the general population.” 

“ _Evans_ —” 

“I’m grateful, please don’t misinterpret, really I am, I’m just properly worried about the whole ‘authority figure’ taking advantage angle—” 

“Hey, hey.” Dorcas grabs me by the shoulders, just round the corner to Gryffindor tower. “Trust, yes? I love you, you know I do, but you have to _trust_.” 

I deflate, slightly, try to let go of some apprehension. “Okay. Trust.”

“But also,” Dorcas continues, smiling with some hidden energy. “Trust me when I say this was mostly their idea.”

Something heavy thuds into the pit of my stomach. “Who—” 

“ _Pepper imps_.” The Fat Lady swings obligingly open. Dorcas turns to me, expectant. “After you.”

_Oh bloody hell._

I step inside the common room, heart hammering like mad. It’s dark, unusually so, consumed in shadows, no light from a fire. I feel Dorcas prod at my back, say, “Oh, weird, why's it all dark? Everyone must have gone to bed.” 

“I swear to Godric if there’s—”

There’s no chance of getting it out, all my worst fears immediately confirmed: An explosive and harrowing cry— _SURPRISE!_ — shot up and exaggerated vastly by a sudden bursting of brilliant lights, silver and purple and blue, so bright I drop my bag straight to the ground, feel Dorcas’ hands on my shoulders, her laughter bubbling at my ear, breath lodged in my throat at the sight: Sirius and James heading up the pulsing mass, room swollen in palpable hysteria, in friends and peers, Peter and Remus and Marlene and Mary and Emmeline, and even Marge Prewett and a tremendous smattering of sixth and seventh year Gryffindors.

“Jesus Christ,” I manage, smiling embarrassedly, frozen in place as I look over everyone’s bright and reddened faces, over the multicolored clusters of non-explodable luminous balloons, over all the furniture cleared out of the way and leaving behind a wide open space, over the table piled high in what I can only assume is alcoholic paraphernalia. 

“You...” I direct this at first at James, then straight at Sirius. “Commandeered the common room?” 

Sirius salutes and steps forward to pull me right into the fray. “Yes, yes, yes. Knew you wouldn't want to graduate this lump of stone without a _genuine_ Marauder-made revelry.” 

I’m trying to come to terms with it all, everyone crowding me; the glittery lights pulsing down from somewhere above; how made-up all the girls look, heeled and lipsticked and bright-eyed; how James has changed into a pair of dark, foolishly tight jeans, a blustery green button-up that makes me want to run my hands up his chest; and, up close, I see that Sirius has smudged a hint of eyeliner around his eyes. The grey sparkles at me, irresistible, iridescent.

“Is she in shock?” Peter whispers to Remus, who elbows him in the side. 

“This is...” I bite my lip. “This is really nice, everyone, but how did you—what about all the, all the other—”

Sirius cuts me off. “ _Very_ careful bribery of first through sixth years, believe you me. Safe and tucked in their respective dorms.” 

“You wouldn’t believe the kind of Honeydukes contraband we’ve stockpiled,” James adds, gently.

“Also, one special favor pledged per underclassman,” Peter chimes in, looking pleased with himself. He’s donned a smart tweed blazer for the occasion, folded up at the forearms. 

I glance between the four of them, all wearing the same smile, a _we’re very good at our jobs, Evans_ smile _._

“But—” 

“Evans.” It’s Marlene, now, seizing me none-too-gently by my upper-arms, daggering me with a firm look. “For once in your fucking life, you’re gonna let go of the need to question every godamn thing, okay? You’re gonna trust that these actual _lunatics_ have got everything under control, okay?” 

The impulse to needle through every detail of this highly irresponsible venture drains from me almost instantly. It’s impossible to look at their faces—eager, anticipating, so dear—and say no, I don’t want this party, pack it all up. 

“Okay.” I nod, exhaling. “Okay, I suppose I can, er, relinquish the title Head Girl just for one night.” 

And then Sirius is sort of screaming, “Folks, it’s fucking go time!” 

“Unless an innocent student is in danger and needs my help, then I’ll have to go deal with that!” I revise, though it’s an amendment drowned out by a new conundrum of frenzied exclamations, of hooting hollers and hugs from all sides and my silly, burning cheeks, exerted through with thought of all the effort put into such a heartfelt surprise, connecting through the anarchy of arms and screeching and mirth to James’ twinkling eyes, his little smile as he kisses my pinkened cheek and whispers, “just wait.” A spot of commotion sounds from above and I glance just in time to watch the enormous piece of cloth unfurling from the ceiling, the crowd of necks bending back to stare up at the spangled red letters: 

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LILY!_

Remus is grinning over at me, ruefully. “ _My_ handiwork, if you can believe it.” His sandy hair is adorably disheveled, blue eyes bright and laughing. 

Dorcas sidles up and jostles between James and I, clapping her hands together perfunctorily. “Alright, alright, time for a costume change!”

James mouths _good luck_ and slips off as Marlene starts yanking at my hand, pulling me off toward the stairs. “Off we go, Evans.” 

“Wait, what? I didn’t bring—”

“Doesn’t matter you didn’t _bring_ something, love, we’ve obviously accounted for the costume change.” 

Dorcas is grinning. “Weren’t about to make you wear your _uniform_ to your eighteenth birthday party.” 

Marlene tugs at me harder, now. “Just let us _dress you up_ , Evans, for Merlin’s sake, you won’t well _die_ from looking _fit_ for one night!”

Mary threads an elbow through mine. “You know they won’t let you off till you’re properly coiffed.”

I exhale and laugh and spare a quick glance back as we begin up the stairs, find James and his sharp outfit, dark green collar pulled apart at the neck, jeans tight enough to encourage salvation. He shoots me a thumbs up as I disappear, cast off into Marlene’s decidedly untrustworthy whims.

***

_James_

“Mine first! Mine first!” 

I accept the cup from Sirius with a distinctly distrusting eye. As I raise it to my lips, he tips taps the bottom impatiently and the liquid spills down my throat so fast I nearly choke. I somehow manage to swallow, but come away coughing. “Fuck, oh, _gods_ , Pads, what’s in this?” 

There’s an argument somewhere about what muggle record to put on; someone is going on about how their uncle knowing so-and-so, who knew so-and-so, who knew David Bowie. Sirius squints down at his amalgam of ingredients. “About 85% Firewhiskey, I’d say, a dash of red gin, and a _very_ small pinch of limequat fizz. Delicious, yeah? I may patent this.” 

“Don’t hold your breath on patenting, mate.” I’m still coughing from the brutal burn of it. “It’s something, for sure, but delicious it is _not_.” 

“You’ve no sense of what flavors go together, Black, you just pour in whatever you can reach,” Remus offers me another cup. “Try mine.” 

His is immediately more pleasant, fruity and void of any noticeable burn. “Good. _Good_ , Moony, what’s in it?” 

“Boysenberry rum and loads of pomegranate juice. Foolproof. Goes down easy, yeah?” 

“Yeah, it really does.” I hand back his cup and reach for Peter’s. “Alright, Pete, a lot riding on this.” I swallow down a sip and pull an immediate face. “Er, is this just...turnip wine?” 

“No, no, no, it’s turnip _and_ beetroot wine, eh?” Peter smiles enthusiastically at what he no doubt believes is an acceptable combination of wines. “Near 35% proof, that.” 

“Sweet Gillyweed, alright,” I laugh, and ruffle his hair and set down the cup without finishing and point to Remus. “You’ve got official bin drink. I mean, I could’ve guessed, but I wanted to be diplomatic.” 

“You’re being so mean to me, right now,” Sirius pouts, folding his arms in front of his body. He’s wearing a black shirt pulled so tight over his chest it’s a wonder it doesn’t tear apart at the seams. 

“No one’s stopping _you_ from drinking that blackout potion, dear,” Remus mumbles, rummaging around the mess of bottles and cups to make room for the massive stone bowl we reserve for gatherings big enough for bin drink. 

Sirius is all smiles at that, leaning his hip against the table, hair flopping down in front of his face as he eyes Remus suggestively. “Oh, okay, _dear_.”

Remus looks sideways at him, blushing. Based on his own outfit—worn tee, tight black jeans, a peek of silver chain visible at the back of his neck—I’d say he knew he either dressed with Sirius’ attention in mind, or was dressed, in part, by Sirius himself.

“Bloody hell.” The words come from Peter, and sound like an emergency. I sigh, saying, “Yeah, I give it two drinks till they’re—”

“No, no, Prongs, _look_.” 

I turn to look where Peter’s got his eyes glued and find Marlene and Dorcas and Mary coming down the stairs in a parade of shimmering dresses. Emerging from behind them as they part like a curtain of velour and taffeta, is Lily. 

Unprepared, my heart drops straight through my ribs.

The dress is simple, really. Soft and black with short billowy sleeves, a low, tight, neckline, a skirt that tapers gently from the waist, flares midway down her brilliant, sheer-stockinged legs. Her curls are swooped up in a messy coil, exposing her neck, the pale, sloped lines, a slender gold chain. 

I watch her approach, eyes alight in something Mary leans in to say. When she’s close enough to notice me staring—looking, I’m sure, like a stupefied prat—I notice shiny platform shoes that bring her to my exact height, notice her eyes—lids glittering gold—blinking rapidly, lips—glossy and full—smiling shyly. There’s a pinch of rosy red high on each cheek. She glistens and gleams. 

My mouth gone completely dry. 

“Hi.” Her voice is breathy. It sends a schism of heat through my sternum. 

I swallow unevenly, dazed, breath caught in my throat. “You are...so pretty.” 

“Um, holy fuck, Evans,” Sirius has since turned from the drink set-up to gape at Lily, jaw gone slack. “What is _happening_?” 

Lily laughs nervously, and I feel like I might faint she’s so beautiful, so warm and glowy and flustered. Remus glances up from his work at the bin to offer her a widening grin. “Wow, Lily, you look great! Drink?”

“Would love a drink, thanks.”

“Evans, the _dress_ , and, and—” Sirius still appears flabbergasted, nearly speechless as his eyes rove over her; which, admittedly, I relate to. He turns, smacks me in the chest. “Are you seeing this?” 

Lily rolls her eyes, but her blush intensifies. I look at Sirius belatedly, rather distracted, to crease my brow and say, “Don’t you—don’t you have some weird whiskey rum lime concoction to brew?” 

He just scoffs and takes one of Lily’s hands to kiss like a right gentleman of the court. “Save me a dance? Just us eighteen-year-olds?” 

Her smile burns so bright. “Since you asked so nicely.”

When she turns back to me I step closer, pushed in all sides by the increasing heat of the room, the sound of some finally agreed upon record pulsing, soft and buoyant and a little bit rock and roll. “Can finally see you eye to eye, Potter,” she says, smoothing her hands up the front of my shirt. 

“Can I kiss you?” I ask urgently. “Or will it ruin everything?” 

“Marlene spelled me into all this,” she murmurs, smiling. “Thought maybe _some_ one might kiss me.” 

I do, and slowly, and the dress _is_ soft, and we’re getting heralded from all sides with _oohs_ and _ahhs_ but my mind is blank of anything but her heavenly scent, something faintly like apples, like flower petals.

***

An hour later, most everyone assuredly three or four drinks in—thoughts of Wednesday morning classes completely and willingly eliminated from the collective psyche thanks to Marauder-promised hangover potions—someone puts on a smooth, slow-moving ballad. Lily loops her arms around my neck and sways into me, eyes so vividly green. I settle my hands around her waist, let out a little laugh. “This is...wild.” 

“Wild?”

“Yeah, just...sort of...a fantasy of mine.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “How so?” 

“I always thought...maybe after we won a Cup, or something, there’d some big to-do in here and everyone would be drinking and having a great time, and you’d come up to me and we’d get along really well, maybe have a drink together, and then you’d ask me to dance and...” 

Lily runs her fingers up through my hair. “And?” 

I shake my head and shrug. “And you would admit you fancied me.”

She crinkles her nose. “Have to say, I was expecting something filthier.” 

“Well, I had plenty of those, too, don’t you worry.” 

She bites her lips. Something flashes in her eyes. “I’m sorry you never got it.” 

“Got what?” 

“The fantasy,” she says. “I mean, who knows how it might have played out if we hadn’t lived down the street from each other this summer. Maybe that scenario is more realistic than you thought.” 

My hands tighten around her waist. I stare, transfixed. “You’ve thought about that?”

“Of course.” She quirks her head a little to the side. “Haven’t you?” 

I swallow and take a second. I have thought about the hypothetical situation, but never for too long. It’s always tinged in anxiety that we might not have arrived where we are now as soon as we did—or ever. 

“James,” she touches my chin gently, smooths a palm down my neck. “Even if I hadn’t...seen you so much this summer, I still would have come around.” 

“You really think so?” It comes out sounding a bit sad, a bit desperate, because a part of me doesn’t believe it, and mourns a version of reality where she never dates me, never holds me, never loves me. 

“Yes. I’m certain of it.” She folds one of her hands into hers and brings it against her chest. “I couldn’t spend time around you, with you, and not—and not _see_ you, who you’ve become. I—there’s no world where I’m not drawn to you, eventually.”

It sends a light through me. It shimmers even in the dim room, all the swaying bodies. The ballad has nearly run its course. “Alright, I won’t waste any more time worrying about hypothetical James and Lily.” 

“I do hope they’re having fantastic sex, though.” 

I laugh and she kisses me, just once, then draws back. “Tell me another of your fantasies.” Lowers her voice. “Dirty this time.” 

“You really want to hear?” 

“Yes, _really_ , Potter, go on.” 

“Okay, well, there’s one I used to visit with upsetting frequency.” 

“ _Used_ to?” 

“You do realize I sleep with you in real life now, right?” 

Her fingers through my hair firm up as she smirks. “I do, yes.” And she leans in to kiss me again, soft and slow and long enough that Sirius is hissing, nearby, “ _no snogging on the dancefloor!”_

We both laugh and I send a sanctimonious finger in the direction of his voice. Lily tugs at my shirt. “Tell me.” 

“Okay, alright.” I inhale. “So, I would just basically walk into the dorm and find you in there waiting for me.” 

She rolls her eyes. “That can’t possibly be all.” 

“Well, you’d be saying some stuff about how you couldn’t keep lying about how much you fancied me, and how much you wanted to...you know...be with me.” 

“Be with you?” 

“You know...shag me.”

Her lips rub together, eyes sparkling. “That’s all, really?” 

I swallow and sigh. “Well, I suppose the thing is you’d be just wearing...” Another long sigh. “My Quidditch jersey.” 

I suppose I expect her to laugh, here, given the ludicrously unrealistic scenario. Instead, she just smiles. “That’s what really got you off? Me in that silly maroon shirt?” 

“Hardly think it’s silly, Evans—” 

“Thinking of me wearing your _name_ is what really got you going, isn’t it?” 

I’m hardly ashamed of it, but the fact remains. If Lily went anywhere near my Quidditch jersey—hell, if she just held it in her hands—I would feel my pulse spasm. Just at the thought I breathe a little quicker. “I shouldn’t have to explain myself, alright? It’s _my_ fantasy.” 

“Ah,” she says. “So it _is_ recurring?” 

“I did...have a dream about it as recently as this summer.” I breathe out slowly. “When I was trying really hard just to be your friend.” 

“Fat lot of good that did you, huh?” 

I pull her in close, her laughter vibrating against my neck. I kiss her shoulder. “Did me a world of good, actually.”

The ballad draws to a quiet end, and something much more raucous spins on. Someone—by the sound of it, Charley Mills, one of our Prefects—calls out for drunk Exploding Snap and a right hustle occurs, Peter at the frenzied head. I lean close to Lily’s ear. “Want your other gift now?”

“ _Other_?” 

I take her hand and smile. “Come on.” 

***

_Lily_

Under the dual spiral staircases of Gryffindor Tower is an alcove concealed from the untrained eye; and in that alcove, carved right into the back of the stairs, is a tiny nook, an escape. Ideal for the student who may need a private place away from dormmates, to rest, study, or—in the case of Marlene, when she literally stumbled into it, third year—to cry. 

This is where James takes me, a muted _lumos_ on the tip of his wand. Sounds of the party blare on behind us as we slip into the narrow space. He pauses at the edge of the bench, turns. I am warm with drink. The dim light barely illuminates his face at all, a sweaty slip of chest visible where I’ve pulled a few buttons undone, running my fingers under his shirt.

I see his lips quirk up at the edge. He’s turning, reaching behind toward the bench. He passes something to me and it nearly falls right through my fingers. 

Slippery silver fabric. 

My breath shallows. I look up, dumbfounded. 

His voice, soft and low. “Guess today’s the day we both win the bet.” 

Something vital and hot slips the crevice of my body. A sound of expectation in the back of my throat. It’s like an ache. “James,” I say, because there’s nothing else to say, nipples gone preemptively taut under the velvet dress. Thighs pressed together with swift and pulsing want. “James.” 

He expels the _lumos_ and steps back, sits down on the bench. In the near distance—and I can’t breathe for thinking all of our friends are mere _feet away_ , celebrating _my birthday_ —someone shouts about _more drinks,_ _less bickering!_

James holds out his hands to me. 

I climb onto his lap, slowly, hiking the dress up my hips around parting thighs. Our faces settle very close. I can feel his breath hit my lips. With both his arms, he ducks us underneath the cloak. It’s a tight squeeze; the alcove is dim. 

And though we’re hidden from view, desire gives fear a steady handshake, and I am throttled by both. Between, treading a razor-thin line: Thrill. 

James presses his lips to mine. His hands have settled at my lower back, thumbs slowing to circles. I curve fingers at his forearms. “Do you want me to do a silencing?” he murmurs into my mouth. “Or can you be very, very quiet for me, love?” 

I gasp inadvertently. The idea of wanting to make sound but not being able to strikes me right between the legs. My hips smooth forward against the seat of his jeans. The scratch of denim on my bare skin thrums, an excruciating frustration. 

“I can be quiet.” 

James lets his lips turn a very lazy grin. He kisses the edge of my chin, tongue tracing ever so slowly down the line of my throat, the side of my neck, the soft of my ear. I lean into his touch, his mouth, sighing when I feel fingers reach under the hem of my dress, tracing the edge of my mid-thigh stockings. I moan gently into his neck. 

“Do you know how you look in this dress?” he whispers. “I’ve been half-hard all night.” I moan again, straining to keep quiet. His thumbs are pressing into the mostly bare flesh of my arse. I rock forward into his hips, feel the hard line of his cock. “You look so good I can’t stand it, Lils. I’ve no immunity to you.” He bites the skin of my throat. “I want you to come on my fingers.” His palms press into my bum, pull me closer. “Is that what you want?” 

“Yes, yes,” I chant quietly into his neck, fingers straining for purchase on his sweaty shirt. 

“ _Shh_.” He breathes so close to my ear that I shiver. “Remember, love, you’ve got to be quiet.” 

I swallow my groan, press my forehead into his and claim his mouth with a kiss. His fingers are rounding my thighs now, stroking softly; I whine, move my hips a little, yearning for friction. 

“Something you need?”

His tone is calm. So opposite my skittery pulse. The atmosphere under the cloak is getting warmer, air becoming difficult to breathe. My thighs ache already; we’re so tightly compacted, clothes between us a rude, unnecessary heat.

“Tell me what you need." 

The words are gentle, commandeering; I find my arms tremble. It’s so different from him asking, breathless, in the heat of a moment, _what do you need?_ It’s a directive. It comes from a place of authority. 

I squirm just at the sound. 

His fingers stroke down the insides of my thighs, passing over the gossamer slip of sheer stockings. It’s unbearable. “I need—” I try, and have to clear my throat and breathe a shaky breath. “I need you to touch me.” 

His lips hide in the slope of my neck. “Where?” 

Impatient, needy, I yank his hand between my legs. “Here— _oh_ gods.” 

Fingers slipping past fabric. His lips pulled to a smile, brow creased. “ _Shit_ , you’re so wet, baby.”

I nearly peak on the spot, so tender and desperate his words. His fingers skim slowly at first, dipping through swollen folds, separating, joining again at the crux, pulling small and desperate sounds from me, pulsing in arcs over my clit. A hand encircles my lower back, unyielding, holding my hips in place. It’s a maddening dance. I attach myself to the steady line of his shoulders, gripping dark hair. I pour stifled whines into his neck, the skin warm and smelling of a cologne he’s never worn, warm and earthy **.** He’s pulled to the pushed-up swells of my breasts like a magnet, lips lacing the edges, heavy kisses strung along exposed skin. My hips swivel into the feeling of unbelievable pressure, quickly rising. It’s good, but not good enough. 

“Please,” I plant in his collar.

His fingers still. “Please what?” 

I cry softly in protest, mouth clamped around the flesh of my own finger. I am panting. The bubble created by the cloak is extraordinarily hot. An inferno. “ _Please_ ,” I gasp. “Fuck me with...with your fingers.” 

No sooner than the words are out does he plunge two fingers inside. I bite down into his shoulder, torso rippling with my repressed sound. He is fast, now, letting my hips rise and fall, manic with heat, my muscles clenching and hungry for the feeling, fast and slippery; the sounds of the party feel more and more distant as I pass through what feels like a dark, glittering light. I don’t leave his shoulder for fear I will scream. Under my hips, his prick is a firm line, twitching. He coaxes me closer and tightens his hand on my waist, strokes me erratically, fingers hooking inside. He whispers long strings of words hot into my ear, _fuck, you’re so close for me, Lils, that’s it, come on, you’re so close, fuck you feel good, you feel so good._

The tremor is swift and takes me almost by surprise; body firming up, back arching through the sudden ache; miraculous heat. I have to close my fingers to a fist and cry without voice, sob without breath. His throat vibrates next to my ear, his breath a hot, damp gasp between breasts. I inhale compulsively, chaotically, cunt grinding down into his palm in mindless pursuit of _more more more_ , until there’s no more, nothing left to take, and I’m an assortment of pleasure and skin, heat and bones. His fingers are loosening gently down my lower back; kisses pressed into the hollow of my throat. 

I feel boneless. Wrapped in some hedonistic gauze. His fingers trail out of me slow and slip into his mouth; I watch him suck on the taste of me. I must be leaving a stain on his jeans. The thought jerks me from his shoulder; I crowd his mouth, see that he’s smiling and flushed as my hands slip down his chest. “I can’t believe you,” I whisper, brushing my lips softly to his. “When you get—when you get like that I...want to die, it’s so... _Merlin_ it’s so good.” His smile widens into something so sweet and unassuming I have to vie for his tongue, moaning quietly as I can, thumbs pressing into his hip bones. “Was I loud?” 

He shakes his head and reaches up to cradle the back of my neck. “You were perfect.” 

I let my hands wander toward the insistent bulge under my hips. He breathes in sharply. “Oh, don’t—” 

But I’m already touching; finding the material is soaked through. “Oh,” I breathe, transfixed by the dark spot under my fingers. “Did you...?” 

He huffs a breath, wetting his lips with his tongue, laughing a little self-consciously. “I...did.”

I swallow, gasp, “Oh, baby,” and pull him in for a hard and urgent kiss, frenzied, gone mad with the idea that he’s just come his pants underneath me. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, I should’ve been—” 

“—not your fault, I’m _seventeen_ , still, you see.” He grins and lets his hands fall to my knees, stroking the warm skin. “Randy and incorrigible. If a woman writhes on my lap I’m doomed.” 

“You often have women writhing on your lap?”

He cuts his head to the side. “Only you.” 

I touch a thumb to his lips. “I adore you.” His eyes turn murky and even in the shadows, I can see him washed with affection. He kisses the thumb. “Do we have to go back?” I wonder. “Can’t we just sneak upstairs and shag in your old bed?” 

He laughs as he retrieves his wand from next to us, pointing it first at his own stain, and then gently at my thighs. “It’s your birthday, you can do whatever you—” 

“ _What_ is your deal, Macdonald?” 

James and I freeze, wide-eyed. The voice belongs undoubtedly to Marlene, and she is undoubtedly with Mary, and they are undoubtedly just feet away from us, pulled into the same secluded shadows, unaware they are not alone. 

Mary exhales. “You’re kidding, right? _I’m_ the one you’re cross with?”

“ _She’s_ being civil. You’re the one with...whatever this is.” 

“Bollocks, McKinnon, it’s like you’re willfully missing the point.” 

There’s a long silence. Then Marlene says, quietly, “You don’t have to...protect me from her, you know. I can handle her.” 

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Mare—” 

“I’ve heard that for about a year now.” 

Another stretched out silence. James is giving me confused eyes. I bite my lip and shake my head, subtly. _Later_. 

“The least you could do is quit pretending you don’t know why I’m so worried. It’s unfair to both of us.” 

“I’m...sorry.” 

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to be honest with yourself.” 

There’s a heavy sigh, and then footsteps, retreating. Another sigh—Marlene, I can tell—and then her footsteps, too, are gone. 

I inhale and throw the cloak off of us. James is whispering, “What was that all about?” 

I climb off of him carefully, smoothing my dress down over my hips and checking my hair with one hand. “Ingrid must be here.”

He laughs a little as he stands, adjusting his shirt where I’ve pulled it apart. “I gathered as much.”

“This isn’t good.” 

“Mary...?” 

I watch him set the cloak back down where he stowed it before. I bite my lip and try to form the words. “Wants what’s best for Marlene.” 

He looks at me a little funny, but just says, “We better go, then.” 

Before we go, I step in for a head-spinning kiss. “To be clear, though, everything was _extremely_ erotic before they showed up.” 

He laughs and fits my face between his palms and kisses me deeper, then deeper still. 

***

_James_

The party unquestionably hit some sort of pinnacle in our absence. Drinks run almost dry—Remus’ ecstatically-received bin drink long empty—and music a dull, thumping turmoil, a good mass of attendees tangled into an amoeba-like clump of writhing bodies; I spot Peter in the mix, surprisingly, red-faced and wide-eyed, appearing properly disoriented by Beverly Opland’s tight grip on his arms. 

Sirius appears unwillingly engaged in the flirtatious attentions of sixth year Mariana Vaz, a strand of long black hair curled and uncurled from her finger compulsively as she nearly boxes him against a wall, hip pushing against his hip, his hand pulling anxiously at the collar of his shirt; across the room, Remus half-observes the two of them, managing to look off-put while holding a bucket out in front of a green-faced Charley Mills where he crouches on an armchair. 

“Oh, gods, alright.” Lily is beelining, now, to where she finds the tense trio of Dorcas, Mary, and Marlene, seated on a sofa pushed against the edge of the room, just behind where Remus is helping Charley. 

I head toward the drink table, send an _Aguamenti_ into an empty cup and chucking some ice in. The cup I hand to Charley, who appears yet to be sick and looks somehow blue, now, in the face. “Chin up, champ,” I smile and glance up at Remus. “Everything good?” 

“Dandy, yeah.” His voice is silted. I look back at Sirius and Mariana. She _is_ rather bold, given Sirius’ clearly unencouraging body language. Then again, he’s still talking to her. 

“I’m—” 

“—don’t think that’s not an invitation, Macdonald, honest, if you’re looking to tell me what I’ve done so wrong. Be my sodding _guest_ , will you?” 

I wonder, briefly, why this should be the day I’m witness to so many interactions of lovers scorned. Just behind us and Charley, intruding on the tight circle of Lily, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, is Ingrid. She’s a drink in her hand and seems tipsy at least, tottering slightly on her heels, a flush creeping up the back of her neck. Her hair is blazing orange, tied up in a ponytail. 

Mary’s hands clutch at the sides of her dress. Lily and Dorcas flank her, protectively. Marlene’s eyes are a wild frenzy between Mary and Ingrid, like she doesn’t know who to comfort and who to tell off. 

“I don’t think it’s the time or place for that.” Mary sounds exceptionally calm, given how aggressively Ingrid is glaring. 

“Yeah, Ing, why don’t—” 

Ingrid shrugs off Marlene’s hand instantly. “Why don’t I just stay though, yeah? I’d like to hear from sweet Mary, here, exactly what thorn I am in her side.” 

Mary remains silently, stoically so. Marlene wrings her hands together. 

“Not gonna bite? Alright, fair enough.” Ingrid wobbles closer, and Marlene inhales sharply as her ex almost topples face-first into the other three. Lily’s eyes are flashing warnings at Dorcas, who just looks back, wide-eyed. 

“Because _I_ can actually illuminate it for everyone, make this easy.” She takes a long swig of her drink and then daggers Mary with a pointed finger. “You just couldn’t stand that she was mine. You couldn’t fucking _stand_ it.” 

“I—” Mary starts to say, but Ingrid cuts her off. “No, no, it’s true. And you were so goddamn sure that on the other side of things she would come running to you, that you tore us apart, piece by piece, with all your little—” 

“Ingrid, that’s enough.” Marlene says sharply, pulling at Ingrid’s arm to little avail. 

“No, _Marlene_ , you fucking know I’m right. You know that we might still be together if it weren’t for this _slag_ —” 

“Enough!” 

Mary’s voice is thunderous and clear, enough so that it gains the attention of a sprinkling of partygoers over the pound of the record. 

“Enough,” she says, quieter, eyes steady on Ingrid, who looks slightly taken aback. Mary stands up from the sofa. “I know you don’t like me, and I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that you think I ruined things for you. I hope that someday you won’t be grieving anymore, and you’ll see yourself more clearly.” 

Ingrid opens her mouth to say something more, but then thinks better, shuts her mouth. 

“I know you think you hurt me best when you talk about my feelings for Marlene,” Mary goes on, even quieter. I watch Marlene turn to look at her, astonished. “But I assure you, nothing hurts worse than knowing I’m alone. So you can use your energy elsewhere. I got this hurt covered.” 

With that, Mary gives Ingrid a last, lingering look, then brushes past her, past all the heads turned toward the dispute, away from Marlene’s unhinged jaw, Lily and Dorcas’ worrying eyes. 

Charley emits a low whistle through his teeth, then promptly sicks up in the bucket. 

Marlene looks ready to be sick, herself. Dorcas says to Ingrid, “Thanks ever so, Laswell. Care to kindly fuck off?” 

Ingrid has gone brilliantly pink in the face. She wastes no time striding away, thrust into the push and pull of dancing bodies. Marlene is staring up the girl’s stairs, desperately, and she turns back to Lily, who is giving her a hard look. “What?” 

“Don’t ‘what’ me, McKinnon. You know what.”

And then Marlene’s shoulders are quaking, and Lily is huffing out a breath, saying, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, let’s just go up there,” and she and Dorcas take Marlene by the arms and all but haul her through the room and up the stairs. 

“Maybe, er,” Sirius is sidling up to Remus and me, perhaps having observed what just went down. “Time to call it a night?” 

“Yeah,” I nod, feeling very tired all of a sudden. “Yeah, definitely.”

***

The room clears off slowly, and then feels empty, save the detritus of a party well-had; toppled cups and the birthday banner half-torn-down and, inexplicably, a single female shoe. Sirius holds it up and stares off in the direction of the girl’s staircase. 

“What a mess.”

I sigh. “We can clean—” 

“No, I mean that Mary-Ingrid-Marlene showdown.”

Remus turns a sharp look. “Maybe have some sensitivity, Sirius.”

“Sensitivity—oh, come on, that was mad! This _whole_ time Mary’s been—”

“Yeah, it’s a right laugh, isn’t it? Fuck unrequited love, right? What a stupid, pathetic, immature concept.”

I watch Sirius’ face falter and fall, the wash of Remus’ agitation pulling his mouth into an affected frown. “Lupin, I didn’t...hey, you know I didn’t—” 

“Whatever.” Remus runs a hand brashly through his hair. “I’m gonna go check on Pete, he looked... you lot can clean this mess up.” 

“Remus—”

But it’s too late. Remus is already gone, clambering up the boy’s staircase. 

Sirius exhales. “Well, fuck.”

“I think...we’re all a little drunk.”

He looks over at me like this is as unhelpful as it sounded. “I _was_ drunk. I _wish_ I was still drunk.” A hand comes to rub roughly at his jaw. “What a sodding mess, really, what the fuck?” 

“It started out nice,” I try, pathetically. 

“Merlin’s _sake_ ,” Sirius intones. “Let’s just clean up.” 

We pull out our wands and start cleaning. By the time we’ve evaporated most of the mess and levitated all the furniture back into a reasonable semblance of the way it looked before, Lily is descending the girl’s stairs. 

“How’s—everyone?” I ask tentatively.

“Okay,” she sighs, resting a hip along a sofa. “It’s a little, er, tense, but I imagine things will be better when Mary and Marlene...talk things out.”

“Sorry about your party, Evans,” Sirius says, carding a hand back through his untamed hair. “Maybe we went a little hard on the libations.”

Lily smiles and shakes her head, saying, “No, none of that was on you, Sirius. It was a fun party, it really, really was. Thank you. It was such a good birthday.”

Sirius looks at her skeptically for a moment, then bows his head, conceding. “So long as you say so.”

“I say so.” She fixes him with a searching look, then reaches out to fold him into her arms. “Eyeliner is smashing, by the by.”

Sirius looks at me over her shoulder. “In front of Potter?”

I roll my eyes.

“Tell Peter and Remus thank you from me, will you?”

“Course.”

“And be nice, yeah?” I add as Lily tugs me toward the portrait hole.

Sirius sighs and waves us off. “Will try my best.”

The halls are quiet and dim. We get several scandalized looks from portraits, given it’s on half past midnight 

“Everything okay, really?” I squeeze Lily’s hand. “That was...intense.”

“Yeah,” she laughs a little. “It was. But...” she shrugs. “I can only do so much to push them over the ledge. I mean—maybe, they’re already over it. Hard to tell with Marlene, sometimes. She’s always in free fall.”

I let the words settle, trying to understand all the pieces I’ve not been privy to, all these years. I find, of course, I empathize deeply with Mary’s struggle. As, I imagine, does Remus. “That sounds familiar.”

Lily looks over and half-smiles. “Marlene and Sirius really do have similar temperaments.”

“Maybe Mary, Remus, and I should start a club, call ourselves ‘The Unrequiteds.’ 

Her laugh is gentler this time. “Don’t think you qualify anymore, actually.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Inside my chest, a fish out of water. “I’ve been requited."

“I certainly hope so.” She slips some fingers up my forearm to my elbow. “It’s been the best birthday."

“The best?”

“I mean it,” she whispers, head falling against my shoulder.

“Lily.” I tighten my fingers on hers. 

“Gods, your birthday is going to be so pathetic in comparison.”

And I laugh and press my lips to her hair. “No way,” I assert, shaking my head. “You’re the only present I need. Just you. And I get you every day.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, face pressed closer.

“Every day is remarkable, really it is.” 

“I’m swooning down here,” she assures my shoulder.

***

After she washes her makeup off and I shower off my sweat, her stockings unrolled and hair braided down her back, under the sheets, my hand wrapped at her waist, I kiss the back of her neck and she is mumbling, “I’m stupidly in love with you.” 

“Stupidly?”

“It’s so stupid.” She is swimming toward sleep. The water is warm; perfect. “I can’t be without you. So...stupid.”

I kiss the same spot, and smile. “Unreasonable.”

“Do you love me, too?”

“Yes,” I breathe, eyes quite shut, sleep quite near. Her breaths are slow and nearly even. “Foolishly so.”

* * *

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